#anyways time to go doodle them it's been an exhausting week i need to work on something fun

[0509-brainrot]

to tge person that reblogged one of my posts 4 Times I just want to say that I see you and I love you and I'm glad you're insane (normal) like me

[cakemagemaeve]

Ugh, I think I need to take a break from Serious Business(TM) for a while. I've been exhausted and stressed and just feeling so hopeless lately, and I think I need to take some time to just focus on happy shit for a little while.

Speaking of, anyone want to see pictures of the kittens that were born in my back yard this April and whom I've been taking care of until they're old enough to go to new homes? I've also got to find homes for their mother and older sister, who was the only survivor of the mom's first litter and who is still slightly feral (but she's made so much progress since we moved them all into the guest room). As attached as I am to these little shits, unfortunately I can't keep any of them. A stray cat having babies in my back yard is how I ended up with five of the seven cats I already have, so... yeah. It's also unfortunate that they're already 11 weeks old and I still haven't found anyone willing to take one. It's kinda stressing me out, to be honest! I mean I love them all and will no doubt cry when they do leave, but frankly, we're already struggling right now, and in more ways than one. Anyway, picspam time!

This is the mama, October Daye, taken when she was still pregnant. She's an incredibly sweet cat and an excellent mother, and honestly I don't think she's a stray so much as she and her previous litter were dumped in the woods by my house (it's a big problem in my area). I only saw her with two kittens, but they were both feral and only one of them was able to get over her fear of people, at least for the most part. Unfortunately, I couldn't save the other one.

This is the older sister, Little Soot. She used to run whenever she hear the door open, but little by little I was able to bond with her. I basically just did what Hiccup did in HTTYD, and I'm pleased to say that his dragon-training method works for cats, too. She's come a long way, but I've still got a lot of work left to do before she'll be be ready for a new home. Baby steps and all that. She took to the litterbox right away, and she's increasingly affectionate, playful, and showing signs of wanting to jump into my lap at times. The next big hurdle is going to be picking her up and putting her in a carrier, something we've only managed once (to get her into the guest room) and which kind of set us back a little ways. Had to rebuild some trust). As it is, her mama and siblings have had their shots, and she was supposed to get them at the same time, but we couldn't get her into the carrier and didn't want to traumatize her further. Still working on it.

And here are the babies the day they were born! There are only four in this picture, but we found the fifth not long after.

There's one boy and the rest are girls. Two calicos, one solid black, one black and white.

It took us a while to find the right box setup for them until we could bring them inside (was waiting for the flea/tick/heartworm/etc. meds to come in, which took a bit, but we somehow managed to keep them safe while they were living on the back porch. Luckily, the flea treatment I gave their mother and sister killed all the fleas on them, too.

Clockwise from the top we have Panda, Fumbo, Puzzle, Harriet Houdini and Sir Cheeto the Cheez Doodl of the Marmalade Order. And yes, he is my favorite and I wish I could keep him SO BAD.

During the day, we'd put them in a kiddie kitty pool for air and exercise. Also, my dog Pippin was and is both obsessed with and terrified of the kittens.

I think these are from the day we moved them all into the guest room (don't worry, we took that shelf behind them out of there). They also took to the litter box right away, and quickly turned the entire room into their personal playground.

Anyway, this is what I've spent most of my time and energy on these last few months. I love them all so so much, but boy am I exhausted! Also, my legs and hands look like I lost a fight with a weedwhacker. Which reminds me, it's time to give them another nail trim.

But yeah, the mama and the babies have had their first shots, and I'm trying to set up appointments for Toby and Soot at a low-cost spay/neuter clinic. I want to give them all the best start I possibly can, but even so it's not gonna be cheap, and right now we're hurting for money. Had some emergency expenses this week that took a chunk of my bank account (my cat Maya Miette [and yes, she does send me to jail for 1000 years on a daily basis] has a lump on her leg that's going to have to be removed), but worry not, I would gladly go hungry before I let any of my furry little demon children do without anything they need. So yeah, this is why I'm scrambling to get stuff listed on eBay.

More pics later if I have the energy!

[rantsramblesandreblogs]

My life is exhausting in every meaning of the word. I work and go to school full time along with supporting two of my queer platonic partners. I do my best to be a kind and good person. I try to be rational and logical. But even so it feels like it's one hit after another.

Spoke with my therapist about the fact that I have basically 8/9 borderline personality disorder symptoms and a history of inconsistent jobs, intense but short relationships (4 separate times now I've had people say they want to be with me forever. 3 of those people no longer talk to me even though I am currently in an enm polycule.), overwhelming emotions that while not expressed externally always feel like a storm if I am feeling. She agreed that based on her knowledge that did seem accurate, and that based on the trauma I received from my mom made sense.

I have rarely understood why or how people find me so attractive,and the secret answer is it was partially the mental illness driving me to try to get my needs met.

Realizing how often I am disassociated from myself and my body has been a process but it's getting better every day. I cry a lot and often, I work on doing yoga. I pay attention to how my joints are and if they're hyperextended. It's exhausting and many times I do actively choose to disassociate over reconnecting because I don't have the space to do that work.

I've started Journaling with my qpp. Just once or twice a week. Dedicated time to pour over what's been upsetting me the most. Problems and how to resolve them. Concerns I have and some doodles.

I want to be better but it's so hard with the circumstances I'm in.

I had a situationship with someone who had become one of my favorite people that ended up resolving really ugly. I had sent them a message to try to check in an make sure that a fwb was all that they were interested in. I sent 2 check in requests and messaged them in the time inbetween that (so they would have been able to see the prev messages.). I really really tried to be reasonable. They came into voice chat and I felt this mix of guilt and panic and anxiety instantly well up.

Now I know they hadn't even read my message when they joined chat. If I believe them on that.

I spiraled really badly and basically impulsively messaged them because I was hopeful that they might be romantically attracted to me and that's why they weren't responding like "I love you, and if you wanted me to I would be in a relationship." They said that I shouldn't have to hide parts of myself and that they didn't want a relationship.... But... No one can ever love all of me. I'd rather have morsels of love than starve waiting for a feast.

After I confronted them about not responding they essentially said that they were too anxious to have the conversation after ignoring my requests to read what I had asked multiple times.

I felt such shame and embarrassment asking them for the reassurances that I needed, I did my best to give them space to read and process and because they were unwilling or unable to try to have a difficult conversation with me I'm not planning on allowing them back into my life anytime soon.

I would never ignore a friend's request for reassurances, much less do so for an entire week.

People who refuse to have conversations about situations because of their momentary discomfort will always ruin a good thing though.

I had told them time and time again "people leave me when I ask for what I need." And they had told me time and time again "You're wanted, I like having you around, I like talking to you. You can ask for honesty and communication."

I'm so heartbroken right now. I lost someone who I thought was a really good friend and had weaseled their way into being a favorite person. I wish more people meant what they said.

Anyway. I just needed to scream into the abyss somewhere.

[sugar-petals]

can you give us more thoughts about domestic yoongles? the taemin's one (wich I love) just made me miss the cat boy so much ;o;

i have a phd in househusband yoongi so let me fire out some ideas for ya.

myg at home headcanon

🐱 word count. 1.9k | fluff, slice of life, slight nsfw mentions, x reader, bullet points

The doorbell sound is a recording of Yoongi imitating a doorbell. He’s such a meme. Ceci n'est pas une pipe.

Seemingly, he teaches himself a new recipe every week. To perfection. Yoongi is very particular about sticking to the recipe and wielding his kitchen tools in the right way. He collects knives, olive oil, and still hates cutting onions.

He separates sleep time, work time, and couple time as the holy trinity. For each, he switches his mood.

Blushes easily no matter for how long you’ve been together.

Establishes his own radio show where he DJs at one point.

Yoongi keeps an extreme track on the garbage schedule. He knows exactly what is due when. Separating the trash is a must. That includes sorting out fake friends trying to get between your relationship. Your social circle as a couple is extremely deliberate.

Yoongi deems himself a terrible host for guests. Unless Hoseok is there to drag him out, it's true he rather stays in the kitchen or at the barbecue preparing the menu courses rather than making small talk. He leaves the hospitality bits to you, however you want to go about it.

What he lacks in conversing with guests, he makes up in bed, God is absolutely fair.

He sings and hums pretty often and has his own vernacular of extraterrestrial uwu noises. It's an alphabet that you have to yet decipher but it's incredibly cute.

Self-made paintings everywhere around his house. 

Yoongi hasn't gone clubbing since grammar school. The most he does is going to a restaurant at lunch with very close friends. And always in a work context. His private life is so secluded from everything else and paparazzi just don't spot him anywhere, Dispatch thinks he must live abroad.

Very well, he does consider his big ole house a separate country. It's a living organism with a studio, gym, trophy room, small-size basketball court, and vastly equipped kitchen. A home theater as well, he likes American movies (like Inception) and Korean action genres, and you can stream whatever you fancy in there whenever you like. 

Yes, he has underwear with cute little bears on.

There's even a little pond in the backyard. Yoongi, Pisces he is, likes fishes after all. Sometimes he sits at the edge of the 'Little Ole Min Lake (LOML)' and stares into the water for literal hours with his chin parked on his palm.

His fridge is so high-tech and futuristic, even Yoongi is rendered clueless by its AI sometimes. The washing machine, too.

Yoongi watches RuPaul’s drag race. What did you expect? He finds it so humorous.

Owns lord knows how many comic collections.

Favorite holiday destination: New York.

Christmas is basically 50% you unveiling new music equipment to him in the garage and Yoongi almost fainting at the sexiness of it. The other 50% is spent holding hands and orgasm after orgasm until the new year since you loose track of time.

Goes on long rants why he’d marry you again every weekend.

Making you presents is his specialty. Always accompanied with a hand-written note. He writes a lot of things by hand for you in general. Texting, basically never. Always on paper.

No sex without a blanket and socks on. Yoongi gets cold very very easily and just doesn’t like showing skin. You buy him a heated blanket for his birthday, he even uses it in his studio chair.

Chronically addicted to making out.

Matching black outfits and glasses.

Laughs at even your worst jokes or phrases you didn’t expect you even uttered.

Yoongi owns the phoniest, most secretive-looking black car ever and nobody knows about it. Even he forgets he owns it, in fact he genuinely acts like it just doesn’t exist. Hilarious. And that guy has a level 1 Korean driver's license. Which allows him to drive trailers and busses and fucking trucks, and construction machines, let that sink in.

It's really a genius curse. Yoongi being put to the test will always deliver but he won't choose to execute his full skillset if he doesn't have to. Well, pragmatic. He's not as phony as he thinks he is, which is even more hilarious.

He uses that behemoth of a car so scarcely because he'd rather have things delivered to his doorstep and he's stingy with gas. Also, he doesn't like traffic and driving because of the traumatic shoulder accident and his tendency to space out. Translation: You drive that thing... that monster... it really is an impressive, fast, and scary machine. 

If someone devious ever even remotely manages to invade his privacy and get past the doubly-installed security system, he has enough money to deal with it no matter what.

If it concerns your privacy, he's a red belt. And owns Jin's number if a taekwondo master is required. Jimin's if it needs someone with kendo skills.

If Yoongi needs someone to go on a complete rampage, Jungkook lives just down the block. He can sprint to Yoongi's bunker I mean mansion within 45 seconds. 30 if it's very urgent. 20 if the reward is an instant ramen splurge with Yoongi's black card.

He has a sexy, glamorous sword collection hanging on the living room wall anyways, so. Who the hell is dumb enough to mess with him and his expensive lawyer in the first place.

But just in case, who knows... Yoongi settles matters shruggingly, anonymously, and with cash and he's too exhausted for violence, but don't underestimate his deter-min-ation and network for emergencies. Also, he is Agust D after all.

He will bonk a naughty burglar or kidnapper across the head with a wooden cooking spoon or take him down by throwing a basketball if the situation requires it. Damn, his reflexes are so fast, a feral cat in motion. So, lean back and sip on your drink of choice. Things are cared for.

If Yoongi is the one being kidnapped or a highly skilled stalker invades the property at night when he's fast asleep (nothing can wake this man during certain hours, strong REM right here): Don't forget that honeyboy is a Dodgers fan. There are signed baseball bats everywhere in this damn house.

In that sense, your parents visiting you here for the first time thought you were an undercover thug couple. Not to worry mom and dad, you both just like sports very much okay.

Yoongi walks around in all black clothes and the rooms are all seemingly dark. Even if you live together, you don't know his skin care routine. It's clear to you he's some sort of vampire.

Since Yoongi always forgets to remove his makeup, you made it a habit to wipe it down when he's about to pass out. He won't lie, he enjoys that kind of affection.

Holly is your resident child. You're essentially a family.

He insists to tackle this by himself, Yoongi sees his therapist monthly. Not shifting responsibility is something he's stubborn about and he pours his emotions into writing. You will do conversation about deeper stuff, but he says it's mostly up to him and his own mind. He dislikes burdening you or opening up too much and it's something to respect rather than force him about. If he wants to share a thought, he will. It doesn’t mean he can’t trust you or sucks at communicating (we know that he’s direct). Yoongi simply can’t put that much pain in such few words nor should you alleviate it for him.

Calls from the manager faze Yoongi as much as Jimin is bothered by gravity. If he’s busy kissing your body slow mo, who the hell dares to disturb his worship. 

This man had so many let-downs and interpersonal catastrophes in his life, he's super discerning with people. Because he rolls that way, during their first meeting Yoongi uses his psychology certificate on your friends. You see him squint at them, he listens very closely. After they pass the vibe check aka meow radar, he befriends them, too.

Yoongi doodles Grammy trophies everywhere to manifest them.

Yoongi shaves his legs.

All the sex toys he’s ever bought are black. Gotta vibe in style.

He spends ridiculous amounts of time in the studio but he's yours for the remainder of the night, breakfast, and he makes a lavish lunch and dinner.

Um, consider his head parked between your legs. The Hongkong line was not a joke.

Doesn’t mind you squishing his cheeks whenever and for how long you like. 

Every other weekend he gets flowers, vouchers, and gifts — not because of fans, they don’t know where his house is, but because he donates so much.

Namjoon often drops by and cleanses the area with his crystals.

Yoongi is a photography major so you can ask him to take professional, ceiling-high black and white shots of you.

Feeding each other food lovingly. Man, this guy got lips.

He set up a library just for you, in the exact historical aesthetic you like the most. Send him the link to any book you want, it's basically in the online shopping cart already. As I said, he wants to make you presents like every week.

Sometimes he sits on the other end studying English videos and vocab while you read. And yes, he's already 95% fluent but pretends being merely intermediate. He knows technical terms even native speakers have never heard of.

He collects pajamas and earrings.

Swears on the phone.

Namjoon being the horniest member is a cover-up story. Yoongi masturbates almost unreasonable amounts of times, by himself and in your arms when going to bed. Not gonna lie, it’s a sight to see his hands at work. He’s almost equally obsessed with fingering you once you ask him.

Yoongi was the one asking you to move in and almost had a nervous meltdown before meeting up with you to tell you just that. 

He’s the little spoon and of course a sleeping burrito to hold tight.

Finds you equally attractive in any state or styling. Yoongi practices what he preaches, he always reacts the same and says the same. 

Jams out to outrageous beats Namjoon sends him by dancing in the studio. You walk in on him every time. Was embarrassed at first, now you dance along.

Has bought you a life-sized Yoongi pillow and customized you a giant Shooky to hug when he’s not at home over night.

Owned a wine cellar until he quit drinking. Turned it into a piano room instead.

Only you know Yoongi has a serpent and dagger tattoo.

Scrubs the bathroom religiously.

The house smells like restaurant food and his extravagant perfumes half of the time.

Sometimes he has to remind himself he’s married to you and not his coffee machine. He shall be forgiven. You can’t complain that he doesn’t love you enough, nor is he ever not adorable when drinking his latte.

Never wears short sleeves. It can be scorching and he’ll wear a jacket. 

Tell him and the cap stays on during sex.

He grows his hair out and puts it in a low bun. The bangs remain.

Yoongi has installed the most fire-proof building in the entire city it seems. That he wanted to be a firefighter when he was young definitely shows. Figures the house has to be protected from heat: His blasting studio music and Yoongi himself are just way too sizzling.

Still melts into a puddle when you kiss his nose.

Couple sunrise watching. 

© submissive-bangtan 2017-2021. all rights reserved. do not repost or translate. all depictions fictional.

[spookyboywhump]

Everett and baby Eli because yeah

***

He didn’t remember falling asleep. He blinked tiredly as he stared up at the ceiling, vaguely aware of how cold he was despite being covered in sweat. Sure he hadn’t showered after getting home but he swore it hadn’t been that bad. That morning he knew he was coming down with something, he’d woken up with a sore throat and a cough but he’d hoped he’d have a day or two before the real symptoms set in, but apparently he wasn’t that lucky. He finally forced himself to sit up, glancing around the room, he saw it was dark out already, he must’ve slept for hours, and Eli wasn’t in his bed. The door was open though, and he could hear his voice from across the apartment, Everett figured he was talking to their mom.

He got out of bed, immediately hit with a wave of nausea and dizziness, but after waiting a moment for it to pass he left the room, making his way down the hall. The tv and lights were off in the living room, but he found Eli in the kitchen, focused intently on a picture he was coloring. Their mom was nowhere in sight, and he realized Eli had likely been talking himself through what he was doing, as he often did. He looked up when Everett walked into the room though, immediately dropping the crayon he was holding and jumping to his feet, standing on the chair.

“Ev! Y-you- you’re awake!” He said, smiling at him.

“Sure am.” He said, smiling back at him. “Where’s mom at, did she go to bed early?” He asked, and Eli shook his head.

“Sh-she left er-earlier, a- uh few hours a-ago, I-I think.” He told him, and Everett felt his stomach drop. When he looked at the clock on the stove he saw it was already past eight, he couldn’t believe Eli had been by himself that long. He instantly felt sick and guilty, and Eli could see it on his face. “Wh-what- what’s- what’s wrong?” He asked, that happy look on his face quickly shifting to concern. He always got this little frown on his face, and an almost scared look in his big blue eyes. It upset Everett just to see him like that, he didn’t need to be so worried about anything at only eight years old.

“Nothing… hey, listen, if she leaves while I’m asleep again, I want you to wake me up right away, okay?” He told him as he walked over, and Eli nodded quickly.

“Oh-okay!” He said, and giggled when Ev ruffled his hair.

“She fed you before she left, right?” He asked, and much to his dismay Eli shook his head.

“Sh-she said- she said you would when- when you w-woke up…” He told him, and Everett sighed, walking past him to find something to make.

“Alright kid, think you can clean up your stuff while I make dinner?” He asked him, searching through the cabinets and freezer for something rather low effort to make. He told himself he’d make Eli a good breakfast when he was feeling better, because he knew he didn’t have it in him to make a good dinner. Thankfully, Eli was easy to please.

He was more than happy to stand next to the stove for a while, enjoying the warmth he got from it. He wished he’d grabbed his jacket before leaving the room. He could hear Eli moving around behind him, gathering up papers and putting crayons back into the box. After a moment he felt him tug on the hem of his shirt and he looked down, holding up a brightly colored picture of a shark.

“L-look- look! This- uh this is a- a whale sh-shark!” He said, a big smile on his face. “It’s uh- it has wh-whale in the- in the name but it is a sh- a shark.”

“It looks great, Eli!” He told him, trying to sound as upbeat as he could with a sore throat and hoarse voice. “Go ahead and put it on the fridge, okay?” He told him, and Eli happily ran over to stick it to the fridge door with a magnet, among all the other doodles Everett had pinned there. He was always so proud of them, and whenever Everett brought a friend by Eli would take any chance he got to show them all his finest work. He really thought it was just adorable.

It didn’t take long for him to get food made for Eli, the kid probably couldn’t have been more happy to have a bowl of mac and cheese set in front of him, and while he ate Everett made himself some hot tea, just wanting something to soothe his throat.

“Are-aren’t you- aren’t you gonna c-come eat?” Eli asked, twisting around in his chair to look at him.

“No, I’m not hungry.” He told him. Truthfully even the smell of food was making him more and more nauseous, he worried if he tried he may vomit, and that was the last thing he needed right now. He brought his mug over to the table and sat down across from his brother, allowing himself to relax as he held the warm mug with both hands.

Eli quieted down for a moment while he ate, but eventually he started up again, telling Everett about the day he’d had at school. He excitedly told him about how he got an A on a spelling test, and he found a caterpillar at recess but he hadn’t been allowed to bring it inside, and he’d even managed to answer a question in class without stuttering once, which he was especially proud of. He seemed happy, and that made Everett happy considering Eli usually didn’t have such great days at school.

“Ev-Ev can I- Can you put a uh, a movie on for me?” He asked once he’d finished eating, getting up to put his bowl in the sink before Everett could do it. He was still so small, even for his age, he had to stand on his toes to reach without just dropping it in. Everett had to force himself to not do everything for him, even if he was little he was more than capable.

“Sure thing kid, go pick one out and I’ll set it up.” He told him, and Eli happily ran off to the living room. In the meantime Everett went to their bedroom to grab his jacket, pulling it on and zipping it up, but he was still freezing cold. He tried to ignore it though, he didn’t want to look as awful as he felt. He returned to the living room and Eli eagerly handed him the movie he picked before going to jump onto the couch. It was the same one he’d picked multiple times a week for the past month or so, but he didn’t really mind, he just put it on the tv and then went to sit down with Eli, letting him cuddle up against his side.

He tried to stay awake but now that they were settled down the exhaustion was quickly over taking him once again. He’d already slept enough, he thought he had anyway, but it was difficult for him to keep his eyes open, and he was still shivering even with Eli cuddled up against him. At least once Eli asked if he was okay, he seemed so worried, Everett just told him he was fine. Eventually, despite his best efforts, his eyes finally fell shut and he slipped into a restless, feverish sleep.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept but when he woke up the room was quiet, the movie paused, and he was lying on his side on the couch, shivering violently, to the point his muscles ached. At first he started to panic, he didn’t see Eli in his immediate sight, but when he started to sit up he saw him at the other end of the couch, trying to pull a blanket over him.

“Ev!” He said as soon as he saw he was awake, looking at him with big, worried eyes.

“Hey kid… what are you doing…?” He asked with a yawn, sitting up completely as he crossed his arms over his chest. Despite his jacket he was still freezing cold.

“You- you seemed- you seemed cold, and- and you looked up-upset while you uh while you slept, like- like you were having a bad dream…” He said, his voice shaking like he was about to cry. “So-so I got a- a blanket…”

“Oh, Eli… you don’t need to worry about me...” He assured him. He gently took the blanket from him and pulled it up over his legs, and when he did so Eli picked something up off the floor, holding his stuffed shark out to him.

“Here!”

“What? That’s your shark, you keep that.” He told him, but he shook his head, more or less pushing it into his hands.

“Ev- Ev helps me s-sleep, so, so you need him.” He said, and Everett didn’t have much of a choice but to accept it. He tucked it under one arm and pulled the blanket back, motioning for Eli to climb up onto his lap, which he quickly did, laying on his chest as Everett draped the blanket over both of them. He managed to grab the remote and he restarted the movie for Eli, holding his brother close to him as he finally began to relax. He was still cold but the blanket and weight of his brother were helping to warm him up, and he still couldn’t keep his eyes open.

He fell back asleep while still holding Eli, but this time he was much more comfortable and relaxed than before.

***

Two days passed and Everett had started to feel a lot better. He woke up to get Eli ready for school as normal, but when he shook him awake the boy whined, curling up and hugging his shark closer to his chest. This wasn’t like him, and Everett knelt down beside the bed, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead. He was burning up, and he sighed heavily, not surprised Eli caught a cold from him given how easily he got sick.

“Hey kid… how’re you feeling…?” He asked softly, and Eli shook his head, whining again in response. “Alright, I’ll call your school and get you some medicine, okay?” He told him, and he nodded.

He tried to do so quickly, and Eli gagged when he drank the cold medicine from the cup, but he didn’t cry this time so Everett knew that was a good sign. He helped prop him up with pillows and stuffed animals and he stepped away to let him rest, but Eli reached his arms out towards him, like he was trying to grab him.

“Eeev…” He whimpered, looking absolutely pitiful, teary eyed and red in the face. Everett couldn’t stand to see him so sad, and he had him move over, sitting down with him and hugging him close to his side. He sniffled as he cuddled up to him, and Everett gently ran his fingers over his arm, knowing it comforted him.

In no time he quieted down, and his breathing returned to being even as he drifted off back to sleep, hugging Everett as best he could. It would be a long few days, whenever Eli got sick he always got it bad but Everett didn’t mind having to care for him- especially after Eli’s sweet attempt to care for his older brother while he was sick. If anything he was just happy to spend time with him, giving him the attention he knew he really needed. Eventually he managed to fall back asleep himself, still holding Eli at his side.

[whumpinggrounds]

Something from Mara's perspective maybe? She's clearly losing touch with her ideals so a couple scenes of her in WRU with everything just becoming more and more normalised would be interesting

okay okay okay i v much appreciated this prompt! here is my best shot below :) and i am tagging the usual lost cause jude crowd!

@shapeshiftersandfire @itstrueiwasthewraithberry and @oceansevaporatetoo

CW: pet whump, lady whump, noncon body modification, intimate whumper, caregiver to whumper, training whump, mentions of/implied noncon,

The scariest part is that whole weeks pass where Mara doesn’t notice the change. She wakes up and goes to work, comes home to happy, smiling Isabella. The days pass so easy, so smooth, like a dream. Work is going well, really well. The higher ups like Mara’s ideas, and her coworkers respect her, and she’s looking at a raise after her second year. At home, Isabella cooks and cleans and jumps at Mara’s word. After months of happy, easy companionship, it feels…well, it feels natural. It feels right.

So, Mara stops thinking about it. It doesn’t do anyone any good to think about whether their arrangement is good or right or fair. It just is. It can’t be changed, and it shouldn’t be. After all, Isabella seems happy enough. She’s always smiling, and she doesn’t have to work too hard, and Mara doesn’t hurt her. Not really.

Well, okay. The stuff they do in the bedroom…plenty of people do that. All kinds of people do that with their partners, and it isn’t anything Mara needs to be ashamed of. She makes sure Isabella has a good time, too, and it isn’t like the Box Babe ever tells her no. They’re programmed to like stuff like that. Mara knows they are. More than that, she knows Jude – or knew Jude, back when she was a person. She knows Isabella’s body, all the little signs. She knows that the pain might make Isabella’s lip tremble, but the pleasure is what makes her close her eyes. Mara reminds herself of that and feels sure again, steady. She feels drawn to Isabella again, wanting to hold her close and make sure she knows that she’s Mara’s, Mara’s, Mara’s. Pets like that. The security. Feeling owned.

As for the rest of it? The rest just kind of…slips. It makes sense, for Isabella to call her owner ‘Miss Mara.’ With all the checkups, it’s safer for both of them. The same is true for like…sitting on the furniture. And, okay, sure, Mara was a bitch during dinner, but Jamie’s not the smartest in any room she’s in. Mara needed to send a message. She has Handler Collins to send one to Isabella, but Mara herself is the only one around to train Jamie.

The only real catch is Violet.

Mara’s girlfriend is gorgeous and interesting and super convenient, though it still makes Mara wince to think about it so cavalierly. Isabella’s fun, sure, but Violet has a brain, and can go places. With both of them around, Mara’s like, on cloud nine. The problem is that Violet is into pet lib. It’s how the two of them met. Since then, Mara’s stopped going to the meetings, because, obviously, it’s too suspicious. Besides, she doesn’t have friends in the local group, nor can she make them, given her day job. Violet still goes all the time, because she’s trained as an EMT, and the local group needs her, but Mara wishes to god she’d stop. They’ve settled the argument about Isabella a thousand times, gone round and round and always, Violet concedes, exhausted, that Mara is right. But the arguments themselves make Mara uncomfortable and edgy and frankly angry. It’s hard for her to be as patient with Isabella afterwards, as understanding. On her grimmest days, Mara has to roll her eyes at that dark irony. Violet would be sick if she knew what consequences her pretty little ideals had in the real world.

But at least Mara has Isabella to comfort her, and a beautiful spotless apartment, and a tidy paycheck at the end of every month. At least she wins every argument, and the arguments only come every few weeks, anyway. Days pass, and then weeks pass, and Mara feels more and more sure of herself. Isabella is safe, and she’s here, with Mara, where she belongs. They’re happy together. It’s sad that Jude’s gone, that she’ll never come back, but in a way, getting a fresh start, a clean slate, is kind of…it’s kind of nice. Mara lets herself be lulled right into feeling happy, feeling secure, and never thinking that any of this might be wrong.

Then comes the day that Mara’s walking down the hallway and she runs into Handler Atkins with a trainee.

They must be going to see Director Hammond for some reason, because they’re not supposed to be on this side of the facility. When Mara sees the boy, she physically draws back, unable to repress the visceral reaction.

The boy trails behind Tracy Atkins, taller and broader but far more hesitant. The handler trots along energetically, boots clicking along the floor, and behind her, her trainee shuffles along barefoot, head bowed. He’s in the usual black shorts and white shirt, and there’s a black leash leading from Atkins’ hand to the collar around his neck.

“Hey, Doc!” Atkins smiles broadly, and Mara forces a smile. “C’mere! Take a look at my boy!”

Swallowing, Mara steps forward, scanning the boy as she does. She can’t resist the urge, and Handler Atkins asked her to, anyway.

The boy behind her is tall, probably six foot. Mara really shouldn’t call him a boy – he’s likely in his late twenties, maybe even older than her – but the nervous, vulnerable, vaguely blank look on his face makes him seem much younger. Dark eyes, dark hair, cut close to his scalp. Handler Atkins tugs him up right in front of Mara, but even as he gets within a few feet of her, his eyes stay fixed on the floor.

“He, uh, looks like he’s almost ready.” Mara tries to keep her voice mild, maybe even impressed. It’s, well, it is impressive. In a fucked up way. But look at Tracy Atkins, this tiny five two woman leading around a six foot man on a leash. Mara smiles, for a second, at the ridiculousness of it, and she can tell that Handler Atkins appreciates it.

“He is.” Handler Atkins coos at her boy, tickling under his chin. He stands stock still and takes it, head bowed, hands folded in front of him. “You’re almost ready to go home, aren’t you, honey? Aren’t you?”

There’s a mean little smirk on Handler Atkins face, like she’s making a joke that Mara doesn’t understand. She jabs her trainee in the side, and he winces. “C’mon, 121, aren’t you going to answer me?”

The boy stays silent, and Mara frowns. That’s not right. Especially at this point in training, the trainee should be jumping to please his handler, should absolutely answer such an easy question.

Handler Atkins glances, snickering, from the silent, withdrawn boy to the confusion on Mara’s face. Finally, she relents. “Chin up, 121.” While Mara watches, Atkins runs her finger over a livid red scar on the boy’s throat, one that had been concealed by his dropped chin. “Prospective paid extra for a Domestic that can be counted on for…discretion, you know?”

Brow wrinkling, Mara stares at the boy, then Atkins, and then horrible understanding hits her. “Oh my god, the vocal cords?”

“It’s a neat little procedure! Only took him two weeks to recover. He’s a trooper, my 121.”

“Yeah…wow.” Mara feels faint, feels sick. This man – this boy – is, is never going to speak again. They’ve – this woman who sits in Mara’s office once every two weeks, she’s taken that from him. Forever.

That day, Mara puts a sign on her door and sits in her office all day, trying to think. A few times she puts pen to paper, but she doesn’t write anything, just scribbles aimless doodles. That night, with Isabella, she’s rougher than she’s ever been.

For the next three weeks, Mara takes long walks through the training division of the facility, until she can look a brutalized trainee in the eyes and not feel anything at all.

[haydensdelvca]

Purple Hearts - Tremmett

Had so much fun coming up with ideas for this fic! Hope you enjoy some Tremmett fluff :) 

"You good?" Emmett asked as he slowly helped his boyfriend out of the car as they arrived home from the hospital.

"Yeah, thanks," Travis answered, trying to give Emmett a smile through the excruciating pain in his leg.

Emmett helped Travis as he hobbled inside, still not used to using the crutches properly.

As they got to their room, Emmett helped Travis onto the bed, arms firmly wrapped around him to support him. As he sets him down, a small but mischievous grin forms on Emmett's face, causing Travis to look up at him in confusion. The pain medication he was given along with the pain itself was making Travis a bit drowsy and not fully alert, so it took him a minute to realise what was amusing his boyfriend.

"So, I guess with a broken leg you might find it hard to get changed by yourself, and say, have a shower. I presume... you might need some help with that, right?" Emmett asked, unable to stop himself from smiling. He had been really worried when he heard Travis was hurt and planned to dedicate all of his time to nurse him back to health and take care of him. However, he couldn't resist thinking of all the ways Travis was going to have to lean on him for support, quite literally.

"I hate you," Travis muttered jokingly, annoyed that his boyfriend was finding this amusing.

"You love me really," Emmett replied, still grinning from ear to ear.

"Stop smiling like that," Travis complained, crossing his arms.

"Sorry, sorry," Emmett apologised innocently, not wanting to work him up when he was in pain.

"Just help me get changed," Travis rolled his eyes, unable to be annoyed at Emmett for more than two minutes.

"If you insist," Emmett smiled as he got closer to the injured man, slowly starting to take his top off while making close eye contact.

A small smile started to form on Travis' face, the butterflies in his stomach brought on by his boyfriend making him forget about the pain temporarily. "Fine, I do love you, even when you are finding enjoyment in my pain."

....

Travis was exhausted after his long shift which was followed by a trip to the hospital, which was not one of his favourite places. He had finally been getting some sleep until he smelt a surprisingly good smell coming from the kitchen.

He was too stubborn to admit that he was still struggling with the crutches, despite the fact that Emmett had realised within seconds. However, he wanted to try again and slowly made his way to the kitchen, for the first time thankful that they had no stairs in their house.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

Emmett turned around, surprised to see his boyfriend standing opposite him. "Oh, I didn't know you were awake, you could've called me if you needed help," he said as he rushed towards him.

"It's fine, I need to get used to this on my own at some point, don't I?" Travis replied, secretly enjoying how protective Emmett was being over him.

"I guess. How are you feeling? I thought I might attempt to make something for when you wake up. It's not much, and I can't guarantee that it's any good," he rambled on, knowing he was definitely not the most skilled cook out of the pair.

"I'm ok, still in pain though. But it actually smells amazing in here."

"You don't have to sound so surprised," planting a small kiss on his cheek, wrapping one arm around Travis' waist.

....

After dinner they cuddled up together on the couch, watching the TV show Emmett had been obsessed with for the past few weeks. It didn't particularly interest Travis but he watched anyway because Emmett enjoyed it.

However that day, Emmett didn't seem as focused on the show as he usually was, as he was more focused on Travis. "You know at first when Ben called me to tell me that he was taking you to the hospital I got so scared. I admire your passion for your work but god, it really scares me sometimes."

Travis tilted his head to look at Emmett, "I know babe, I know how it feels like to constantly be waiting on the sidelines, not knowing if I'm gonna come home." He could vividly remember all the times he was worried sick about Michael when he was out on calls and wouldn't ever want to wish that feeling upon Emmett. He even felt anxious for Emmett when he was still a firefighter, as although things were a bit rough between them during those days, he still wanted to protect him no matter what. Now, Travis found himself feeling grateful that Emmett wasn't risking his life everyday like he was.

"I know this doesn't compare to how you felt that day, I'm sorry if that brought up memories," said Emmett quickly, not wanting to sadden Travis. It broke his heart when Travis had told him what he had gone through when he lost Michael.

"No it's ok," he replied as he took Emmett's hands in his. "I promise you that I'll be as careful as I can every single day, and I'll always keep you updated whenever I can. And, you know I have the best team who will look out for me no matter what."

"Yeah, definitely," Emmett replied, his nerves slowly calming down. "But for the next few weeks, you're stuck here with me"

“I’m not going to complain about that part,” Travis smiled as he leaned onto Emmett's chest, falling asleep within a few minutes. Emmett held Travis close, not ever wanting to let him go, as he ran his fingers through his dark hair.

....

Emmett rummaged through his art drawers for a purple marker while Travis was still asleep.

He made his way back to his boyfriend quietly, and started doodling little hearts and stars on his cast, smiling to himself.

"Hey, what are you doing?" He heard a sleepy voice coming from Travis as he felt what Emmett was doing.

"Making you a bit more fashionable. You'll have wait and see, go back to sleep" Emmett replied with a wink.

Travis felt those familiar butterflies in his stomach once more, smiling as he lifted his head to take a look at his boyfriend, deep in concentration with his blonde locks falling over his forehead.

"I love you," he said, as he leant back down to go back to sleep once more.

"I love you more."

[passionate-hedgehog]

Banana

m.list

Shayne Topp x Reader (gender neutral)

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3041

AN: This is my first Shayne x Reader fic. AND it’s now gender neutral! Thank you to @rustyisdead for helping me change up all of the pronouns!

Summary: Helping out a friend ends in a way Shayne wasn’t expecting.

   When Shayne offered to help one of his buddies out that went on a week long vacation, he did not think it would require him to interrupt his own schedule as much as it did. He didn’t mind it, honestly. The actor just had to reconfigure his own morning routine to fit his very current yet very temporary situation. 

   Banana was a golden-doodle. A little more golden than doodle, but a very wonderful dog. She seemed to know that the current human taking care of her wasn’t as...savvy...to how she worked. At least, that’s what Shayne thought. The look in her eyes always spoke of mischief to him. She wasn’t naughty...but she liked to see how far she could push him. She also had very shady moments that made him think she knew more than she was letting on.

   Day three out of seven and he was at the point where he remembered he was supposed to drop her off at doggy daycare without forgetting and leaving for his work commute without her. On the first day, he just forgot about her entirely. On the second day, he made it to the doggy day care but without the doggy part. He had to drive all of the way back to his apartment, load her up (but she LOVES car rides, Shayne. It won’t be hard to get her to go! I promise), drive the fifteen minutes to the care center and then to work. He wasn’t going to make that mistake a third time. He was better than that, he told himself.

   When he did eventually get to his destination, without forgetting the passenger, he took in the sights. Cute Critters Pet Sitters was a simple brick building but he could tell how much maintenance went into the yard area. He couldn’t see a lot but the fencing seemed to go on forever. The actor leashed up his current canine companion and walked her into the building, following the very well placed directions. Banana got signed in and the attendant at the front desk took her to where Shayne assumed the other dogs were. He wasn’t sure. This whole thing was new to him. 

   “Mr. Williams? Are you still able to help out this week for the renovation?” One of the front desk attendants asked.

   Shayne paused and looked around, because out of all of the things he had been forgetting that week, his name wasn’t one of them. But when he realized that she was looking directly at him, he realized there must have been a misconception.

  “Oh, I’m not...I’m not him. I’m just dropping off his dog this week.” The actor replied .

   The woman pursed her lips. “Oh, I apologize. Banana’s owner was slated to help out with our indoor renovation project this week. I’ll have to tell Mx. L/n that he’s no longer available. Which is an honest shame.

   Shayne looked abashed. 

   “I see Banana is here! Is her human still here, too?” A different voice called from the gymnasium Banana had been walked into.

   “I’m afraid not, Y/n.” The receptionist replied as the worker from the gymnasium walked into the foyer. “He was dropped off by someone else today. And will be for the rest of this week, correct?”

   Shayne only nodded in reply. The receptionist seemed to think her job was done and walked off somewhere Shayne couldn’t see, not that he was bothering to look. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the person standing before him. They were wearing a leopard cat ear headband that had distracted him.

   The worker began to wring their hands together. “He won’t be here today? At all? Or this week? We were really looking forward to his help.” 

   “I’m sorry,” Shayne shrugged. “He’s on vacation. I’m dog-sitting Banana for him. That’s why she wasn’t here the last two days. Was it something monetarily? I can shoot him a quick text…”

   “Oh, no! Nothing like that! Please, don’t interrupt his vacation! It just kinda...sucks. He promised to help with renovating our playroom-slash-gymnasium. He was our first volunteer for it so we were hoping it was showing us his excitement and so we got excited...not too many of the pet parents volunteered…”The worker then sighed deeply while rubbing their forehead with both hands. 

   The actor noticed how distressed and let down they seemed. They must have been really looking forward to someone willing to come in on their own time and help out. Shayne didn’t like the idea that his friend promised to give time to help out and then just didn’t. He almost felt...responsible for the current situation. Not that he felt like he caused it...but that he had the opportunity to amend it. So he did what any responsible person would do.

   “Do you...I could help?”

   “Really?!” L/n clasped their hands together and looked like they could start jumping up and down at any point. Shayne offhandedly wondered if they learned any traits from the dogs they played with all day.

   “Yeah, I mean, I pick Banana up after work anyway. I could stop in and see if you guys still needed help? I don’t know what all I could do. But I could probably do something.” Shayne nodded as if trying to convince himself more than L/n.

   “Sweet home Alabama. That would be PERFECT.” They then pulled him into a big hug and then released him with a smile that seemed larger than what should be possible. “Awesome! AHHH!!! Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!”

   After solidifying what time he would be back to pick up Banana and check in on what they needed, the actor left for his work commute. He started up his car and texted his best friend. 

   Shayne: I just had a crazy time bringing Banana to daycare. I’ll be to        set... soon.

   Damien: You mean “late”?

   Shayne: Tomato tomahto.

   Filming half a month's worth of content in one day would always be exhausting to Shayne. No matter how long he had been doing his job, he was always exhausted after the long days of filming. The last thing Shayne wanted to do was put in more physical labor but he made a promise and breaking a promise was not something he did. So, when he made his way back into the care center, he made sure L/n knew he was there to do what they needed to get done. 

   “I’m so grateful you still came to help.” They mentioned while they moved the enrichment items from the big gym to a storage closet. “I know that the last thing anyone wants to do after a long work day is renovation work. But I’m very thankful, Shayne.”

   The man squinted. “You know, now that I think about it, I don’t think I told any of you my name.”

   Y/n seemed to be too busy, conveniently, to look him in the face. “Hm...yeah? Huh…”

   When he didn’t say anything after a minute the worker groaned. They turned back to face him and scratched at the back of their head and scrunched their face up. “I...might be a fan. Of YouTube. A few different things...SMOSH things…”

   “Oh, well I’m honored.” He gave them a smile as if to placate their worry. “I don’t really run into too many fans here in L.A. Not that I’m complaining. But it’s nice to hear every so often.”

   “My niece got me into it with one of your sketches and I’ve been hooked since. You guys do good work. She watches them on days when being a teenager is too hard and they make her feel better. So, thank you, I guess.” L/n giggled as they resumed putting things on shelves.

  Shayne followed suit and the two kept busy organizing the storage room while talking about everyday things. At some point, when Shayne called them “Miss/Mr L/n”, they corrected him.

  “You can just call me ‘Y/n’. We’re not in a terribly professional relationship, right? You’re just helping out in the storage room for a few hours.” They said as they climbed up the shelf to reach the top of another. “Plus, I’d really just like to hear you say my name.”

   Shayne wasn’t sure he heard them right until he noticed that they stopped moving altogether. 

   “Please tell me that I said that on the inside and not on the outside…”

   The man gave a small chuckle. “I can’t do that. I’m not good at lying.”

   Y/n threw their head back, gave a big sigh, and began to climb down the shelving unit. At some point though, their foot had somehow slipped on something and they felt their body not going where they wanted it to. They then braced themself for the impact of their back meeting the floor but it never came. There was the feeling of two hands on their back gently pressing them in the direction of the shelving unit. One of the two hands moved from the middle of their back to their lower back and they were helped down. 

   “Jesus, Y/n. Do you have a ladder so you don’t do that again?” Shayne asked as they turned towards him.

   The worker didn’t answer, but instead hugged him. “I’m so freaking scared of heights and that was terrifying. Oh my God, thank you.”

   “Yeah, of course.” Shayne gently patted them on the back. “I’m glad I was here to make sure you didn’t get hurt.”

   “My heart literally fell. I know it wasn’t that far off of the ground but I don’t even like step ladders like I just really don’t…” They finally looked up into his eyes and they locked. “Uh…”

   After realizing they had stopped communicating for a moment, they pulled apart awkwardly. Shayne took a step back and shoved his hands into his coat pockets and looked anywhere that wasn’t at them. “Right. Well…”

   Y/n blushed but smiled in a humored way. “Shall we work on moving in the bigger items? The tunnels that are back in the gym need to be broken down and put against that wall. It should only take a few minutes. We won’t need anything else done tonight.”

   Shayne nodded and the two began the last bit of work before Y/n could begin painting. This time the two didn’t talk as much as they stole glances at each other. Sometimes they’d look at the same time and end up smiling like teenagers seeing their class crush. The rest of the evening went on like that until the playroom was emptied. Y/n dusted their hands off together and stretched. 

   “So, you’re painting this whole gym alone? Or are the other workers helping?”Shayne looked around trying to figure out what their plans were.

   “Oh, heavens no. There are some small decorative details that need to be painted and then we’re going to have the floor deep cleaned. I’m going to go through the storage rooms, all of them, and see if there’s anything that needs to be tossed out or what needs to be fixed. It’ll help us plan our budget for next year. I’m super stoked. I want to get some new activities for the pups. OH!” They then jogged to where their phone was sitting on a chair and started swiping through it.

   Shayne watched as they bit her lip and quickly searched for something. They had then made their way back to him and was angling the phone almost in his. They began to share with him their thoughts on what to get to improve on the indoor activities and he observed as they got enthralled with what they were talking about. He didn’t really understand all of it but he noted how excited they got when explaining the puppy teeter totter on their pinterest board. The picture captured a pit bull that was basically smiling as he was mid climb. They also gushed about how they were suckered into the item because of the smile. 

  “I’m a sucker for smiling pitties. It’s a curse, really. I can’t stand it.”

  “I think it’s pretty neat how excited you’re getting over this. I can’t wait to see how it ends up. These dogs are so lucky to be here with you looking after them.” The blonde actor had somehow ended up with one of his arms on the workers waist. “They’re going to love it.”

 “Yeah?” They turned into him.

  “Oh, absolutely.” He brought his other arm up to meet them together.

   They bit their lip as she kept their gazes locked. “You promise?”

   He just nodded.

   “I think Banana is very ready to go home!” A voice called from the other end of the gymnasium.

   The two broke apart and Shayne gave a self conscious cough. “Right..uh...I’ll see you tomorrow when I drop off Banana, Y/n?”

   The worker just nodded in response, watching the man leave the care center with the leashed dog.

   After Shayne got Banana in the car and he himself was buckled in, he grasped the wheel and sighed with an emotion he wasn’t sure he could identify. He ran his hand through his blonde hair and started the car. Before he put the car in reverse, he looked into the mirror and noticed Banana looking at him from the backseat.

   “I know, Banana. I shouldn’t. I don’t have the time for a relationship or the energy most days.”

   The dog blinked.

   “Blink one more time if you think this is a bad idea. Blink two more times if you think it’s a good idea.

   Banana responded by laying down, not blinking at all. She seemed to be too tired for Shayne’s love life drama.

   “Same, girl. Same.” He put the car in reverse and made his way out of the parking lot.

   The next day started off in a hurry. Shayne was late to dropping off Banana, so he didn’t see Y/n at drop-off. Somehow, though, he was still late to work even though he didn’t have any distractions, pleasant or unpleasant. He wasn’t quite sure which category Y/n fell into.

   When he eventually arrived at work (Late two days in a row, Shayne? You can’t opt out of Eat It or Yeet It if you’re not here to put your vote in.), he went straight to set for a SMOSHcast recording. He knew he’d be clowned for being any amount of late so he didn’t let it bother him. He just put on the headphones and jumped right into it.

   Advicecasts had become something he really enjoyed doing. He didn’t fully understand why people kept asking them for help but he loved doing it. He felt like it was a time he could truly give back to fans in a different way. Different questions and situations went through the conversation and Shayne was proud of himself for not letting his thoughts drift off too far.

   “Alright, this next one is one a few of us could relate to.” Ian, his boss, began. “It reads ‘I have this amazing job that I can’t believe I have, it’s a dream come true. But lately I’ve been thinking about dating and having a partner, I know it’s something I want in the end. I try looking but time and energy isn’t something my job offers. What would you guys do in this position?’”

   Sarah and Damien both gave “ooooh’s”. 

   “Well,” the producer seemed to take a second to collect her thoughts. “I think it really has a lot to do with where do you want to put your energy? Where do you want it going? In the end, what would you rather have in your hands? Your dream job or your dream partner? It’s a hard question to ask and answer, but you’re truly the only person that can make that decision. Maybe you can balance the both of them and make it work. That’s the ideal situation. But it might not workout that way. Honestly you’ll never know until you try. You have to actually get out there to try to figure out what it is you want more.”

   Shayne hoped it wasn’t obvious, but it probably was, that he slightly checked out after Sarah’s input. He had disregarded dating in its entirety because of his job. He was constantly on set, or traveling, or working on other projects that he was blessed to book.There wasn’t a point where he thought he’d be able to enjoy a relationship fully. But maybe if he put in the effort...now that SMOSH was running smoother since his most recent relationship...maybe it’d be ok? 

   Shayne walked up to the receptionist during pick-up to let them know he was there. When no one was at the desk, he walked himself to the playroom where he didn’t expect to see what was before him. Some of the dogs were laying on their backs just hanging out, and Y/n was there with them. They were laying on their back, also, staring at the ceiling. The whole thing looked super chill and Shayne wanted to join in.

   Y/n turned their head in his direction as he laid next to them. Their arms almost touching, They gave a gentle smile and the actor returned it. He was very surprised that none of the dogs jumped up to meet him when he walked in. Wasn’t that what dogs did?

   “It’s nap time.” Y/n explained as if they could read his mind. “We’re promoting a calm environment after the excitement of finding a mouse in the courtyard earlier today. Things got a little cray, but now we’re enjoying some quiet time.”

   After a moment, Shayne just barely felt something touch his hand closest to Y/n. Once he recognized it as their fingers, he closed the distance and just held their hand. Sarah was right. Shayne needed to put his energy towards the things he wanted the most. And what he wanted the most was to see what he and Y/n could become. He just had to go for it.

[darker-soft-starker]

Starker High School AU, Pt 3 (Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 4, Pt 5)

-----

There were two things in life that Peter was unequivocally certain were true.

Number one was that Monday mornings were a universally despised, unpleasant experience that no weekend could ever ease the pain of having to endure.

And number two: Sit-ups were a specific and profound mechanism of torture that no person should ever be required to engage in, recreationally or mandated.

Of course, it would be just his luck that the two were combined on this very Monday morning.

It was cruel and unusual is what it was, Peter thought, hands curled at his temples as he pushes himself into a sitting position, falling back onto the dewy grass with a thud that steals the breath from his chest.

Bucky, holding his ankles, encourages him to complete his set.

“I can’t,” Peter gasps, his stomach trembling as he pulls himself up again. “I - oh fuck - I hate this. I hate exercise.”

Bucky squeezes his ankles tighter. “C’mon, Parker, only three more. You can do it.”

Peter shakes his head, even as he pulls himself up again with a pained groan.

“No, I can’t. Make it stop.”

“Two more. You got it. Sit-ups are not the boss of you.”

“Yes - ahh - they are!”

“One more!”

Sweat pours down his neck and his muscles protest as he pulls himself up for the last time. He gets probably only most of the way up before his gravity slams to the ground.

Bucky slaps his bare calf encouragingly as Peter stares up into the glaring morning sun, arms splayed out, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Oh, god. Never again. That was the worst. 

Covering his eyes with his quivering arms he wonders if maybe coach will indulge him just this once. Maybe he can stay here until training is over, perhaps curl up into a ball and try to blend in with the grass so that no one sees him or subjects him to any more exercise. 

Except Coach Danvers is already yelling at him to get off the ground and get moving.

He smacks his hands over his ears but it’s no use.

“Get up Parker, last warning!”

“Respite!” He yells back pleadingly, curling in tighter upon himself. “Please!”

Her whistle pierces the air.

“Now!”

Coach has been on edge all morning. Her harsh has turned razor edged in the face of their upcoming match against Kingston this Thursday, reminding the team of her expectations, tolerating nothing other than complete dedication.

Which, whatever.

Peter’s dedicated, okay? It’s Monday. He dragged his ass out of bed to be here at an unholy hour, exhausted and bloated from his indulgent weekend, didn’t he?

Erring on the margin of spite towards Danvers and self motivation, which he suspects is her aim, he pushes himself back up. Taking each of Bucky’s ankles in his grip, he starts counting as Bucky begins his set. 

Not that he needs the assistance, Bucky proves his strength by ripping through the set like a bull stampeding through a brick wall. He doesn’t even break a sweat. Dude’s crazy athletic.

It’s really not fair.

As he mentally counts the reps, Peter thinks Bucky’s the kind of fit that Peter both hoped and never hoped to be. He’s effortlessly capable at any physical task, but he works hard for it, harder than Peter would ever dream of working, dedicating hours to gym time and conditioning. Bucky’s not even out of breath when he strikes up conversation. 

“How was your weekend, PP?”

“S’okay. Played Mario Kart with my Aunt all weekend.”

Bucky grins as his upper half rises to meet his knees. “Oh, party animal. She doing okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good,” Peter grins wryly, taking one of his hands from the other’s ankle to push the sweat-damp hair from his eyes. “Kicked my ass though. She always takes Toad.”

“Switch?”

“Nah, GameCube. How was your weekend?”

“Boring. Parents were home all weekend and wanted some ‘family time’.”

“So, you just watched The Voice all weekend?”

“Yup.”

“Nat sneak in after?”

“Yup. How’d it go with Stark on Friday?” Bucky accepts Peter’s hand as he finishes his set. Peter pulls him up and pats him on the back.

The set off in a jog to complete a lap of the field, Coach yells that only five minutes are left, urging them to pick up speed. Peter’s lungs burn when he speaks.

“It was fine.”

Bucky looks at him dubiously, flyaways whipping at his face.

“Well not like, fine-fine, but no bloodshed. See? All limbs intact.” He holds his arms out mid-sprint. 

“Wow, so you’re basically best friends now.”

“No.”

“Did you hold hands and braid each other’s hair?”

Incensed, Peter shoves at Bucky to the sound of his snickering,

“Ew, stop, I just had breakfast. Look, the first experience was painful enough. Can we move on? I really don’t want to talk about it.”

---

“And then he hit on my Aunt,” Peter complains in the showers, soaping up his chest. “Literally right in front of me. Who does that?”

“Did she flirt back?” Bucky asks, dipping his head into the spray. 

“What? No. He said he was just trying to get under my skin,” he puts his head beneath his own shower head, the water pleasantly lukewarm against his heated skin. “I mean, what kind of psychopath does that?”

“Yeah, but your aunt is super hot though,” Wilson says to his right. “Stark’s an asshole, but he’s not crazy.”

There is a general murmur of agreement around the showers. 

“I’m going to need you all to shut up right now,” Peter warns, turning to point at them all. “Keep my aunts name out of your mouth while you’re washing your balls, alright?”

“You heard him, move on,” Rogers cuts in, offering Peter a sympathetic smile. 

He nods gratefully as conversation quickly turns to girls, grades and the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. There was a reason why Peter was on Roger’s side all these weeks ago, he thinks, observing how the entire team respects his command without query. The guy was just interested in doing the right thing, and that’s pretty cool.

By the time they’re all dried and dressed, the topic is forgotten, much to Peter’s relief. He’s nearly late to first period though, too busy watching Wilson and Barnes smack each other with wet towels and attempting to tame his unruly curls into something resembling neatness. He’s not proud of the amount of gel it takes, but it’s what he’s got to work with. 

It’s not that he’s obsessed with his appearance or anything, but he has a routine that he sticks to. Gel and lots of it.

Once, in third grade, Flash pulled one of Peter’s tightly coiled ringlet between his fingers, pulled on it and said oink. Peter still had some lingering baby fat at the time and so, as cruel as children can be, Peter was donned Piggy Parker for a time afterwards. Sometimes Porky Parker. They’re friends now, but the oinking and snuffling that followed him around the playground still haunts him.

Anyway.

On the way to first period Rogers walks alongside him down the hall. They have English together, but usually make their way separately. It kind of weirded Peter out for a moment because while they’re team-mates, they’re not really friends. 

“Heard you got paired with Stark for an assignment,” the other boy says, his wry smile caught between amused and sympathetic. “That’s shit luck, Parker.” 

“You’re telling me,” Peter agrees, waving to Ned and Betty as they pass. “Dude’s a freakin’ prick.”

Rogers bumps their shoulders together.

“You said it. Want me to have a word with him, get him to back off?”

“Nah,” Peter shakes his head. “I can handle Stark, he’s just some bored rich kid looking for a fight. Besides,” he gives Rogers a once-over, “pretty sure you’re supposed to keep your distance after your last brawl with him.”

“True,” he concedes, clamping Peter’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze as they stop before their room. “But we’re a team, alright? Just say the word and I’ll encourage some sense into him. Promise to be gentle.”

Peter clamps his hands over his heart with a flair of drama, despite being truly touched. “You’re my hero, Captain Rogers.”

Rogers rolls his eyes and shoves him into the classroom.

“Alright, smartass. Let’s go.”

Inside, he smiles sheepishly at Mrs Perez who glowers at them for their lateness and takes his usual seat between Clint and Shuri. He signs a good morning to the former and smiles at the latter, who is staring down at her desk with disdain.

“What’s wrong?” He nudges her chair with his foot to grab her attention.

“The curriculum.” She raises her head and points to the board miserably. It reads Lord of the Flies.

Oh, great. He could use the nap.

Peter smiles sympathetically, opening his nearly full notebook up to a blank page. “How was your weekend?”

“Meh.”

“Meh?”

“Mmm,” She nods, gesturing airily. “You know, eh. Oh, oh! I heard you spent the weekend getting cosy with Stark,” Shuri follows, pretending to search through their textbook. “Wow, that’s a three-sixty, PP. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What?” Peter hisses, voice lowering when their teacher looks around as roll-call commences. “That’s not -- ”

“Parker!” Perez yells for roll call.

“Present!”

Shuri snickers as Peter’s hand shoots up.

Lucky for him it’s the last he hears of it.

Kinda.

---

His next class is Bio with MJ who, thankfully, says very little through class. She inspects him with bleary eyes when he enters, nursing a coffee in her hands, always earlier than Peter who has to come from the other side of the school.

Peter’s grateful for the reprieve. When she does speak to him, it’s to borrow a pen or to offer him a sip of her coffee. It��s not a lab class today, only note-taking and listening to their teacher drone on about plant anatomy in the same monotone, so he accepts the bitter black coffee without hesitation.

It’s only then that he ventures to initiate conversation.

“So,” he begins precariously, doodling in his notebook, “how was your weekend?”

She shrugs, appearing more awake than earlier. “It was okay. You?”

“It was okay.”

And that was that, he’s relieved to note, companionable silence falling between again as they turn their attention to their teacher again. It’s not until they’re packing up their books at the end of class that MJ speaks to him again.

“See you at lunch?”

“Yeah, dude. Save us a table?”

“You bet. Oh, and by the way, I heard Stark is gonna be your new step-daddy. Congrats.”

Peter groans.

“How do you -- you know what, no,” he says, pulling his backpack over his shoulders and making a x with his arms. “Nope. No more talking about Stark, he is persona non grata. I’m traumatised enough.”

MJ pushes his glasses up after they slipped precariously down his nose during his declaration. “You’re so dramatic, dude.”

He bumps their shoulders together on the way out of the room and shakes his head.

“Why do people keep saying that?”

---

Ned texts him during recess; Peter is taking an extended break in the bathroom despite not needing to be there, but he’s definitely not hiding, nope. He’s just chilling in the cubicle.

< heard stark spent the weekend < lol wtf < plz verify < actually i don’t want to know < no wait i do tell me < dude

< hello?

----

Traitors, all of them.

He wonders if he should leave this school and start anew elsewhere.

---

Here’s the thing.

As much as Peter loves his friends, he has limits to how long he can spend with them before needing a time out.

They’re his motley crew of village idiots. Some he’s known since first grade, like Ned and Flash, others only since he came to the school and subsequently, the football team.

This school headhunted him because of his academic merit. With his pursuit of scholastic excellence - and the fact that some of his best friends would be attending the school, he applied for and was awarded a scholarship. It was a no-brainer - he had big dreams and even bigger expectations of himself to achieve them and he wanted May to be proud of him.

Which was why when it was suggested that he try out for JV, having exhibited some physicality during gym class, he decided to give it a try. It would look great to have on his applications, he was assured.

So he did. Somehow his wiry frame and years of gymnastics was considered an asset and he was promptly recruited by Coach Danvers. At first he deeply regretted the additional commitment -- the early hours, the soreness, adapting to the internal culture within the team. But he’s persevered and he’s glad that he did. 

And for the most part, he copes okay. He can juggle football obligations and after-school activities and the odd tutoring jobs here and there and stay sane, right?

Sort of.

Because as grateful as he was for his broad circle of friends, Peter was still, at heart, an introvert. And right now, his social energy is running on fumes. 

It’s because of this - and nothing to do with the relentless questions about Stark - that Peter retreats to the library at lunch that day. 

Nestled away in the dusty, back corner, near the collection of old encyclopaedias that nobody reads, are an assortment of bean bags. It’s away from the main area, quiet and disregarded by most. It used to be a thriving recreational area way before Peter’s time, but there wasn’t any maintenance to it over the years. Now the bags are old, terribly lumpy and are speckled with suspicious stains, the fabric is thinning and aged. Most people purposefully avoid the old rec area, which is why Peter likes this spot best. It’s his secret hiding space.

He prepares to disassociate for the next forty minutes by getting comfortable on his favorite bean bag and popping his earphones in. 

Next, he retrieves his slightly soggy ham-tomato sandwich from his bag and takes a large bite after unwrapping it. The first burst of tomato hits his tongue at the same time as the music begins. 

Ah, to be alone.

Closing his eyes, he allows his body to sink into the bag and for his thoughts to wander freely.

Of course, because his luck is as poor as he is, his seclusion lasts all of three songs before someone else enters into his space. Well it’s not his space, technically, but it should be. 

When Peter creaks an eye open to see who is intruding he’s surprised to see Thor perched on the bean-chair opposite him. They catch each others stare and smile.

Well, alone time is overrated. 

Maybe his luck isn’t down the drain after all - because this is his opportunity to prove he isn’t a total fumbling loser. He doesn’t know which deity he pleased to be alone in a quiet corner of the library with Thor, but someone up there is clearly looking out for him.

He wants to say something, to strike up a conversation that might make Peter seem cool and only casually interested - something that would make him sound both smart and like, available.

But not too available. 

With little success, Peter wracks his brain for the best opening line but frets because he’s ever been cool or collected a day in his life. And great, now he’s just been sitting there smiling for like two whole minutes like an absolute weirdo. Come on, Parker, say something! 

Thor acts well before Peter has the chance to say anything, pointing at him, his mouth moving with words Peter can’t hear. 

Realising a moment too late that his earphones are still playing music from his phone, Peter hurries to tug them out if his ears, smacking himself in the face in the .

“Sorry, I was --” Peter gestures to his ears, hands shaking, cheeks going hot. God, Thor is talking to him. Him! Peter Parker! “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said I like your shirt!” Thor replies, way more loudly than what would normally be socially acceptable for a library, but Peter does not care. Thor likes his shirt.

“This?” He asks, gesturing downwards to his shirt where crumbs are dusted at the collar. “You like Nirvana?”

“I do not know Nirvana,” Thor smiles, “but it looks very cool. Peter, right?”

“Uh yeah,” he nods, face positively flaming because again, he knows Peter’s name. Quickly sweeping the crumbs from his shirt, he extends his hand out to the older boy who shakes his hand. Holy shit. Be cool. “I’m Parker -- I mean, Peter. Yes. Nice to be here. I mean, nice to be speaking. To you.”

Even as Peter’s arm is roughly jostled with Thor’s exuberant hand-shaking embarrassment crawls up his neck, and he wants to disintegrate into the bean bag where no one has to witness his persistent, glaring awkwardness. Palms sweating, Peter has to bite his lip to stop himself from commenting on how big Thor’s hands are.

Stop it, he scolds himself, be normal, play it cool.

“Thor, right?” Peter asks, as if he didn’t doodle their initials together in his notebooks. “You were at training last week.”

“Yes, you fell on your face,” Thor nods, gesturing to the yellowed bruising on his jaw, “I saw.”

“Oh, okay, so you saw that! Uhh -- ” Peter waves a hand at his face, laughing nervously. “This? It’s nothing. I’m totally fine.”

“You are clumsy,” Thor states, not unkindly.

“Well, no -- I mean, yes --” Peter tries to come up with an explanation, but falls short. “I’m not always a klutz, promise. Just sometimes.”

“Happens to the best of us. Well, not myself, but you know, generally speaking. In any case, I’m happy to see you’re okay.” 

Thor unzips his backpack then and from within it retrieves a truly gargantuan protein shake, followed by a sub wrapped in foil so large it could be the same size as Peter’s forearm. Sneaking a look down at the remainder of his own lunch, his pickings look pretty slim in comparison. 

“Sorry,” Thor says. “Just peckish for a snack.”

Peter watches, dazed, as the older boy consumes half his sub in a single bite, washing it down with several mouthfuls of his shake.

A snack.

“You’re fine. Anyway, football isn’t really my forte,” he admits after a moment, drawing his knees up. “I mean, I’m okay at it and I like it, but it’s not really what I’m best at, y’know?”

The blond boy nods, “I’m on the varsity team,” he proclaims, wiping his mouth. “Whatever that means.”

His accent is so thick it takes Peter half a moment to figure out what it was that he said. 

He’s not sure if Thor is being serious or not but the one question Peter has is why is he so fucking cute? 

A silence follows, albeit not an awkward one. It gives Peter the opportunity to inspect the older boy, nearly a man at his height and stature, of course helped along by the generous distribution of facial hair across his lower face. 

“Uh, did you play football back at home?” Peter asks, keen to keep conversation going. “Soccer?”

“Oh yes,” the boy nods. “Soccer, tennis, volleyball. Water polo. Badminton.”

“Wow,” Peter blinks, “that’s a lot of sport. You’re like the whole Olympics here.”

He’s awarded with a lazy grin for that comment. Thor, to his credit, doesn’t appear to be boastful about his physicality, seemingly a result of his passions instead of a product of vanity.

“Close enough, I suppose. What else do you play, besides football?”

“Uhh --”

Oh god. How is he supposed to respond to that when the idea of doing additional sports outside of football is abhorrent? He can’t tell Thor that. Surely he can fake a common interest. Think of something, Parker, think, think.

The first bell rings, saving him from having to provide a potentially humiliating answer, seeing as all how all that could think of was chess, or PC. Both of which are true and accurate, but not exactly something he thinks that would make him appear more attractive or endearing.

Thank god for fifth period.

“To be continued?” Peter asks as he picks up his backpack, just a little hopeful.

There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs, moment filled with odd squeaks of polystyrene as they attempt to stand.

Thor nods and to Peter’s surprise, doesn’t immediately rush to get away from him. There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs with, odd squeaks of polystyrene as they stand. Instead, he accompanies Peter all the way out of the library, walking alongside him into the main hallway where a flurry of students are intersecting to get to their next class, walking alongside him.

Heads turn to watch them as they depart the library and enter the halls. For a moment, as kids part like the red sea to make way for them - for Thor - Peter wonders if this is what it’s like to be famous. Or to be on the arm of someone famous. It certainly feels like it, because even though the revere isn’t for Peter specifically, it seems like the weight of everyone’s awe is on them.

He doesn’t like the attention. But he likes Thor.

To his delight, the older boy follows him to his locker. Embarrassingly, it sticks when Peter tries to open it, as it usually does. He struggles with it for long, humiliating moments before Thor opens it with one hand.

“Thanks,” he says, blush creeping back up his neck. “You’re like, crazy strong, dude.”

Thor flexes and inspects his own bicep, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, smiling roguishly. “Back at home I used to lift my brother for weight training.”

“You what?”

“A story for another time,” Thor shakes his head, shuffling closer to be heard over the traffic of students. “Anyway, I should be going. But there was something I have been meaning to ask you, if I may take a moment --”

Peter freezes. Oh my god, this is it, he thinks. 

It’s happening.

“-- seeing as you and I have similar interests and we seem compatible, it would please me greatly if you would agree to --”

Heart racing, Peter turns, a fervent yes already on his lips.

It dies when there is a loud call of his name in the hall.

“-- Hey, Parker!”

Whatever Thor was going to say wilts at the interruption, seemingly forgotten as he waves at the intruder. Peter turns to see who called out for him and instantly wishes he didn’t.

Heart dropping to his stomach, he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. 

This is his luck.

Never has he wanted to melt into the floor and die like he does right now as Stark approaches the pair in quick strides.

Hands shoved into his jean pockets, Stark’s wide eyes dart between them inquisitively, a shadow of a smirk crossing his face, disappearing just as quick.

“Well, pardon me. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Tony places a hand on his heart and leans on the locker next to Peters. “Thor, barely a pleasure as always.”

“Stark,” Thor nods.

Tony simpers, smile saccharine sweet and gestures to an uneasy Peter.

“I am just so sorry to intrude, but would you mind if I spoke to my husband here? He’s such a slippery one, aren’t you, sweetums?”

Thor looks between them, head going to and fro like a pendulum.

“He’s not my husband,” Peter rushes to assure, acutely pincered between Thor’s confusion and Tony’s mischief. “I mean he is, but it’s for an assignment. We’re not really -- it’s not real. I don’t like him.”

Tony exhales heavily, looking at Thor with dismay. “That’s not what he said in our wedding vows.”

Peter wants to punch him in the throat.

“I understand,” Thor smiles, patting each of them on the shoulder. He dips his chin and catches Peter’s eye. “To be continued?”

“Y-Yeah,” Peter nods enthusiastically, probably too enthusiastically, he thinks, as his aim is to pretend to be cool and disinterested, but he doesn’t even care because maybe not all is lost after all. “To be continued. See you.”

All of the pomp bleeds away from Tony as Thor walks away, his posture turning into a slump against the locker.

The smile drops from Peter’s face. He sends Tony a heated glare as he retrieves from his books, shoving them into his bag.

“What do you want?” he grumbles, slamming his locker shut. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”

“It’s part of my charm,” the other boy shrugs. “What can I say, I’m delightful.”

“You’re deplorable.”

Tony gasps in mock offence. “Deplorable? Good lord, Parker, is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“If the shoe fits,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, I have to go to class. Say what you want or move out of the way.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that. C’mon, what were you and He-Man grunting about, hmm? Grr, me big, you tiny?”

“Unless you have a point,” Peter asks, pointing to the main hall, “I’m leaving.”

Tony puts his hands up in surrender, however the glib expression doesn’t quite leave his face. But at that moment Peter doesn’t have it within him to care, he’s not here to entertain him and sooner they get this over with, the better.

“Alright, alright, buzzkill. Come outside, I have to talk to you about the assignment.”

Peter looks at him, perturbed. 

“I need a smoke,” he explains, tutting at Peter dispiritedly. “Also, don’t lie, I know it’s your free period.”

He doesn’t wait for Peter to respond, heading straight for the double doors that lead to the courtyard at a sedate enough pace for Peter to follow. Nonetheless he jogs a few paces to catch up after debating whether or not it was a good idea to follow or if he should hide in the boys bathroom.

Again.

It’s fairly chilly out, the wind whipping through his clothes. He wishes he had a scarf or gloves or something, opting to shove his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hooking the hood over his head.

“How do you know it’s my free period?” he queries loud enough to be heard over the wind. 

“Because,” Tony turns to walk backwards, the breeze whistling around them, “it’s also my free period and you always stink up the library so I can’t go there,” he rounds the corner to lead Peter to the shaded area behind the auditorium where a few students are lingering, most of them smoking. 

“And you take the best seat. Personally, I think it’s selfish. I can’t possibly sit there after your ass has warmed it.”

Willing himself to not rise to Tony’s level of pettiness, he crosses his arms over his chest as they come to a stop. The wind is at full force now that the surrounding buildings aren’t taking the brunt of it and it is cold as all hell, although Tony’s in a black t-shirt and doesn’t look affected at all, probably because he’s cold-blooded or warmed by hellfire.

Tony cups his hands over his lighter to protect the flame from the breeze, struggling briefly to light his cigarette. Once the end is properly alight, Tony takes a drag while staring at him. 

His hand comes to rest at his thigh, smoke rising idly from the cigarette. After a moment, he exhales the smoke in Peters direction.

“Wow. You’re disgusting,” he waves his hand in front of his face to dispel the smell. “Don’t you know second-hand smoke can kill?”

"Yes. Do you want a drag to speed up the process?”

“Don’t be a dick,” he says as Tony seems to find himself funny, offering up the cigarette in jest. Peter has half a mind to snatch it out of his hands and stomp on it. “I know that’s hard for you.”

“I’m joking, okay. I thought the wind would redirect the smoke. My bad.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, the assignment? Still waiting for whatever was so urgent."

Tony takes another drag, flicking ash to the ground before answering.

“I booked an appointment with a realtor for tomorrow after school.”

That has Peter’s curiosity piqued. “Really? Where?”

“LIC. One of the agents has agreed to be a reference so our domestic nightmare can be officially documented. Yay, go team.”

“Yay,” Peter deadpans. “What time?”

“Appointment’s at four-thirty,” Tony retrieves his phone from his pocket and hands it to Peter. “Give me your number and I’ll send you the details.”

Peter accepts it with a grimace. It’s warm from Tony’s body heat. Ugh.

“And now you can say: ‘thank you for being proactive, Tony, you’re so much better than me, Tony’.”

“Thank you for being proactive, Anthony, even if you’re a self-aggrandizing jerk,” Peter mutters, voice getting progressively more sarcastic. 

A wide smile blooms on Tony’s face, clearly pleased with himself. 

“You’re welcome, Parker.”

He is going to let that one go, Peter decides, feeling magnanimous on spite of the circumstances. He’d never admit it, but he’s kinda surprised by Tony’s apparent initiative, and even genuinely a little grateful that the other boy has arranged this so quickly. Or even that he thought to arrange it at all - field research was one of the highest scoring components on the rubric for this assignment.

Eyes flicking up for a moment, he assesses the other boy. Maybe he’s not as much of a slacker as Peter thought he was.

Tony, slumped against the brick wall, rubs his stomach and burps quietly. 

Or maybe he is.

Nevertheless, Peter types in his details and saves his contact in Tony’s phone as Your Better Half. 

Peter isn’t too much to look at, he knows, but he’s not the weak link here.

Tony accepts the phone back and wipes the touch screen on his shirt before pocketing it. 

“Alright then, meet me after school tomorrow in the parking lot. Don’t be late,” he flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps on it to put it out. Tony bends at the waist then to pick up the stub, clutching it in his fist for later disposal instead of leaving it as litter.

That surprises Peter a little, it’s more thoughtful, conscious a gesture than he would have expected to come from Stark. Not that he’s ever personally seen such behaviour from him, but it wouldn’t be a stretch with his devil-may-care attitude. Would it?

He’s about to make mention of heading back inside when Stark takes two purposeful steps towards Peter, bridging the gap between them. 

Peter freezes on the spot, breath caught in his chest as Tony brings them nose-to-nose.

He flicks his eyes down at Tony’s lips when his solemn expression morphs into an impish smile.

“Dude, what -- ?”

While Peter is distracted, Tony’s hands dart out to grip the strings of Peter’s hoodie, tugging them until the hood shrinks around his face.

“Do me a solid and try to wear something that doesn’t make you look like you’re a step away from lining up at a soup kitchen, okay? Y’know, something nice.”

Peter smacks his hands away furiously, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Tony backs away, snickering.

“You really get off on being a prized piece of shit, don’t you?” he mutters, somewhat self conscious as he tries to correct the hood. “Poor jokes, that’s real nice. Sorry not all of us were born wearing Balenciaga.”

He continues to struggle with it as they move away and head back towards the main building, pushing it off his head altogether. 

“Calm down, Charlie Brown, it’s not that deep,” Tony says drily, although his flippant demeanour softens significantly. “I have no doubt that you’d still manage to look like a hobo even if you were loaded, okay. You just have that grubby vibe.” Tony claps his hands together. “So, tomorrow. Meet me in the parking lot. Yes?”

Inside, away from the wind, Peter is still helpless to quell the hurricane that is Tony Stark. He gives him a tired thumbs up.

With that Tony sets off in the opposite direction, leaving Peter to wonder what the hell just happened, and what his life has become these last few days. 

“What a jackass,” he says to himself.

Now alone, he rubs his hands up and down his face, fruitlessly attempting to scrub away the memory of Tony close to him, eyes warm with mirth, the heat of his body up close and the smell of nicotine on his breath as he quite literally tugged Peter’s strings. It takes longer than he likes to will the image away and to calm the furious beat of his heart.

Furious; a feeling Peter is becoming progressively more familiar - and uncomfortable with.

Ben used to say that being angry at someone was allowing them to take up space in your head, rent free. He was right, because it never served Peter well to house animosity when acceptance was kinder to his soul and psyche, and to others -- but he can’t help it with this guy. Tony Stark is like an ear worm of the brain. He has this completely obnoxious way of making himself front and centre despite Peter’s best efforts to cast him to the sidelines.

While he’s willing himself to move on his phone vibrates inside his pocket with a new message.

> ur not my better half, loser > why r u like this > nvm i already know lol. > remember, don’t be late 2morrow

Peter, just a little satisfied with himself for getting under Tony’s skin, saves his contact as Tiny Stank and types back quickly, eager to get back to his seat in the library - assuming Stark hasn’t already occupied it - and make the best of his remaining free period.

<  whatever helps u sleep at night < also, plz lose my number after this is over

> way ahead of u, princess > say hi to aunt may for me

Ugh, Peter cringes, pocketing his phone without replying.

That guy is the worst.

---

*

*

---

tagging: @bylerboyfriends, @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny,  @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix

[many-gay-magpies]

{The Red Wall}

---

In my house, there is a red wall.

It was there when we moved in— a stark contrast against all the other walls in the house, all monochrome shades of beiges, taupes, and greys, achingly plain compared to the blood red wall separating the kitchen and dining room.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with plain— plain was good, my mother said. Like a blank canvas. Nothing much clashed with beige. There was quite a lot, however, that could clash with red.

My mother always talked about painting over the wall; Making it something teal or blue-ish and all the surrounding walls a warmer shade of beige. She talked about it often, every night after work, but she never did.

One day, one of my mother's friends came over, one who worked in magic; The kind of magic that still exists in the smallest ways yet no one believes that it does, too stuck on it being fantasy. He came to visit; Said there was some negative energy in the house— something leftover, like the remnants of something which didn't cause harm any longer. And as he spoke, I couldn't help but glance at the red wall.

There was something jarring about it. It felt like more than just it's blood red-ness stark against the muted greige of the room, more than just the way my mother would always highlight it, when talking about what in the house she would paint, when she wasn't so tired from work anymore.

Sometimes my parents would go on errands, and I would be alone in the house— I was old enough, they trust me and I trust myself. If it's in the mornings (or any time when I'm hungry, really), I'll heat up something from the fridge or freezer, leftovers or one of those bland meals the school gives us which I shower too much in salt or pepper.

One of those nights, when I was alone, I found myself stopping beside the wall, looking up at it silently for a few minutes. Something slightly enthralling about it.

"Hello," I said to the wall; Then felt incredibly stupid about it right after and longed to bash my head into it out of shame.

It's okay, I rationalized with myself— No one is home. No one saw you say 'hello' to a completely inanimate wall. Just pretend you were joking around and you'll be fine.

That night, I dreamt of a voice, whispering a 'hello' into my ears as sweet as honey.

The wall began to grow on my mother after a time. Me, too; My father, who was colorblind and not too focussed on such things as wall color anyway, never gave it much thought. My mother and I agreed that the deep bloody burgundy was a sort of nice color, and it went well with all the various ornaments we had stacked against it, the golden-stained buffet and the bronze-edged mirror and the little teal candle holder made of abalone.

Although any time I mentioned liking the wall, becoming accustomed to it, she would simply say, "No, I do want to paint it, soon. We should paint it, soon." But there was less force in her voice each time.

Another time I looked at the wall and said 'hi', quietly, in my mind— No one could hear me, then. Just myself; And even then I could play it off as another one of those stray, silly little thoughts I liked having.

That night I slept better than I had the whole month. Perhaps red walls like to be talked to.

On another one of those alone nights, I was sitting at the dining room table, eating, when I noticed a change in the wall. It was smooth— smooth all over. It shined, not like paint, not like it had, because dry paint wasn't supposed to shine, to shimmer like that.

The wall was rippling; Like a sideways lake someone had dipped a finger in, like a sheer veil over a bride's face, like deep red silk in the wind. And then just as it had resembles water, out from the water came a hand, then a face and then long, silky red hair the same as the color of the wall and then a whole person after that.

I wasn't as surprised as I probably should have been, by the woman of blood and porcelain and ebony black eyes that had just emerged from the red wall.

"Hello," I said, again, and she smiled; a melancholic sort of thing, on lips more rosy pink than bloody red. There were little red teardrops beneath her eyes; Like teardrops painted onto a clown's face with face paint.

"Hello." Honey-sweet, like in my dream.

"Why are you here?"

"To protect," she said simply.

"What from?"

She shook her head. "In time," She said. So I nodded. In time. It made sense.

I said nothing more and neither did she. She stayed, leaning out of the wall, for a while, before slipping away; The red slowly turning from a rippling mirror texture back into solid paint, back into nothing much surprising or unordinary, aside from the starkness of blood-coloring against boring beige.

Curiosity of the red woman plagued me for more than a week, so one night in the middle of the night I crept downstairs in my pajamas, pulled up one of the dining chairs to the red wall and sat in it with my knees up to my chest. I drew little things into the dark red paint, little hearts and swirls and doodles of eyes I could see with nothing but my fingertips.

Again the wall changed from paint to ripples, and again she came from it, pushing through the red like silk curtains.

It was hard to see her, in the dark— I hadn't turned on any lights. But still her skin illuminated under the palest bit of moonlight coming in from the outside window.

"What do you protect from?" I asked, leaning the side of my head against the wall.

"Nothing," she said quietly. "Nothing, now."

I nodded; Understanding in some way I wasn't entirely sure of, but didn't protest.

"Is whatever it was you protected from... gone?"

I thought I saw her nod in the dark. I may have. Nonetheless she spoke no more. I wondered if she had a limit, on what words she could speak per night; Or if she simply got tired after saying a few.

I didn't mind the silence that followed, though. Words could be tiring.

The woman came down to sit atop the gold-stained buffet. Her knees were pressed to her chest, like mine, her arms wrapped around them. I thought she looked smaller, in the dark. Less powerful, more childlike.

That in itself felt like a powerful thing.

"Goodbye," I found myself whispering, when she slipped back beneath her watery curtains again. Then I went up and slipped drowsily between my own.

"My mom is going to paint this wall," I said to her, the next time I saw her.

The woman rested dangling above the doorway between the kitchen and dining room that night— sitting atop the doorframe as if it, in it's white-painted glory, didn't have the same rippling effects as the blood red wall she had emerged from. It probably didn't; acting more like a chair of sorts, from which her porcelain legs swung to and fro beneath her, little drips of red falling from her dress and disappearing the second they hit the floor.

"Oh," she said, and I thought she looked sort of sad.

"Will you go away, when she does?" I asked her.

A nod. I found myself a bit sad about it too, somehow; about this being who was looking more and more like a young girl and yes like a woman as the nights passed by, or perhaps that was just my changing perception of her.

"Oh," I answered, quiet, because I still wasn't entirely sure what to say to a girl that had come out of a wall. "Well," I was again sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with my knees to my chest, but still at the table, this time, and facing the white doorway she dangled from. "She probably won't do it for a while. She's tired. From work. So, you'll... stay here a little longer."

A soft smile came to her rosy lips, "That's good."

I learned more things, in time. I learned that the people who owned the house before us had been trying to protect themselves from something, and created her for the purpose; I learned that when they moved, they had just left her there, like a family leaving a puppy behind in an alleyway when they no longer wanted to care for it.

Of course, I knew things were much more complicated than that. A red-clothed protector spirit was quite a bit different from an abandoned puppy. Sometimes, though— sometimes I looked into her eyes and I wasn't as convinced.

The next week, she told me she didn't want to leave.

I tried to think of ways to get my mother not to paint over the red wall, or ways to delay it, at least; although her work exhaustion did that pretty well on it's own. But when it came down to it, the wall would be painted, one way or another, and I, a person vastly avoidant of any form of confrontation, had no way of stopping it.

"It's okay," she said in a whisper one night, like all the others, us both sitting in the dining room together, me in my pajamas and her sitting on the doorframe in her red gown. "It's okay, I can go. I'm not needed here anymore." I'm useless.

Some days, when I had presentations for class, or when would lay awake at night, anxiety pulsing in my veins about every possible situation, I would be overcome with this feeling of warmth; of red.

Weeks passed. The red wall became a staple of comfort, like a deep burgundy blanket draping over me and snuffing out all the little candleflames of doubt, not really a medication for the anxiety but something that made the weight a little lighter, the thoughts a little more bearable when they would get so bad I couldn't breath. I would sit, and I would talk, with this protector in the wall who didn't have a name, who was like a lost puppy, a newborn child thrust into the world for a purpose that was so quickly pulled out from under her.

She started appearing less; not coming out of the wall to sit with me as much as she had, although sometimes I still saw a ripple, a faint sheen that was more than paint. I would still sit and talk, be it aloud or in my head, to the red wall; maybe hoping for something to respond again.

I began to wonder if I was a little crazy. Maybe I had imagined it all. Maybe I only dreamt the softer voice that told me 'thank you' and 'goodnight' after I closed my eyes. Maybe I was, indeed, mad.

Although I began to think that maybe that was her exact motivation, when summer came and my mother painted over the red with pastel-y teal and I wasn't as sad about it as I could have been.

---

In my room, there is a red wall.

It was painted a month ago— covering the wall behind the head of my bed, a stark contrast against the creamy beige surrounding although it is nice, somehow, too. It feels like a blanket; snuffing out the light from the windows in front of and behind me when it gets to bright, holding me in warmth when the winter gets frigid and we don't bother to direct the heater up onto my floor of the house because I've always preferred to sleep in the cold.

My mother was curious, at first, about my request to paint a wall red, as red had never been one of my favorite colors, but she didn't protest— and so now, in my room, there is a red wall.

[ghosttotheparty]

while the world ends around us (make believe with me)

2. I just wanna go where I can get some space AO3

Lucas doesn't know what to do with himself. 

He still hasn’t worked up the energy or motivation to unpack beyond what he needs, even after weeks of being in Antwerp. He’s barely even worked up the motivation to get out of bed. 

He’s barely left the apartment, even after his two-week quarantine mostly in his room (during which he unpacked a few shirts and the white comforter that’s strewn across his mattress, which lies on the floor next to a window), despite his father’s demands that he get groceries. That was their first fight after Lucas moved in. Words had been thrown around the room. Lucas wishes he had thrown other things too. Anything that might just convince his father to send him back to Utrecht. Maybe some plates. Glass. But he figures that would probably just get his father’s belt lashed at him. 

When his father finally surrendered to letting Lucas stay home, he told him to unpack. And then told him that he isn’t allowed to put anything on the walls. Not even with tape. 

So Lucas has boxes and boxes filled with things he can do nothing with but look at. Photos he’d printed before moving specifically to put on his walls, that he now just thumbs through longingly, gazing at Kes and Jayden and Isa and Liv. He even has photos of Noah, whom he’d gotten closer to in the days before the move. Noah had given him a goodbye gift of a set of pencils accompanied with a wink and a hug later on that night. He’d told Lucas that he’d caught him doodling on a napkin at a get-together a few weeks before. 

“You’re pretty good,” Noah had told him. “You could do it seriously.”

“I do,” Lucas had responded. “I just don’t show anyone.” 

“Well maybe if you show more people, more people will get you new supplies.” 

Lucas had just made a face and allowed him a “Maybe.” 

The pencils are in the same box as all his sketchbooks, the ones he’s started filling with drawings and doodles, and the ones that are completely blank, bought before he moved just in case he wouldn’t be able to buy any after arriving.  In the box, he also has watercolours and paints and an abundance of brushes, along with palette knives he’s never used. The box is on the floor next to his door. He moved it from the top of a stack of boxes after needing to find his lined notebooks for school. And his clothes. 

Anyway. 

The photos. 

He remembers when they were taken. He heard a lot of laughter that day. He had taken some before Kes had snatched his phone (freshly cleared of storage just for the occasion), and taken more than Lucas had bothered to count. Pictures of Lucas and Isa, Isa by herself, Lucas and Liv, Lucas and Janna, Lucas and Engel, Lucas and Noah, Lucas and Jayden, Lucas and Ralph, before he had begun taking photos of them not posing. Photos of them eating, laughing, talking, hugging.  Them all existing. 

They were beautiful.

Lucas had told Kes he could be a photographer. Kes had said he’s never thought about it. 

Then Lucas had taken his phone back and taken photos of Kes and the others until his storage ran out.

He printed each and every one of them.

He flips through them whenever he can, grinning and rolling his eyes at the photos of Jayden making a face and the photo of Noah flipping his middle finger to Kes with a flat face, smiling fondly at the photo of Liv and Isa hugging, Isa’s cheek squished against Liv’s, gazing longingly at the ones of them all together. 

He sighs. 

He supposes he feels lonely now. Of course, he’s still been talking to them, chatting and giggling at the stupid videos and memes they send, but he hasn’t seen or touched them since he moved. He thinks he misses that the most. Hugging, shaking hands, receiving cheek kisses from Isa and Janna and Ralph. Sitting on a sofa and immediately feeling someone’s leg press against his, or lay over his lap. Feeling someone’s head rest on his shoulder, someone’s fingers mess with his curls. He misses when Isa would stand too close while talking to him, close enough for him to wrap his arms around her waist and hold her close while she speaks. He misses when Kes’s thigh would press against his as they sat side-by-side, and when Jayden would greet him with a fist to his shoulder, or Ralph with a pinch on his cheek. 

He hasn’t touched anyone since moving. He doesn’t think the accidental brushes against his father’s shoulders as he storms past count. 

He misses it, more so sometimes than others. Sometimes he misses it so badly he aches, pulling a pillow to his chest, or wrapping his arms around his legs, trying to feel some sort of contact, some sort of pressure. Sometimes he wonders if he’ll forget what it feels like to touch other people. He, no one for that matter, doesn’t know when it’ll be completely safe to touch others, to hang out with them without covering their faces, to greet them with kisses on the cheek, the way Janna likes to. He doesn’t even know if he’ll have anyone he’ll want to do those things with. 

He doubts he’ll find friends like Kes and Jayden, kind of doubts he’ll find friends full stop. 

It’s not like he’s going to have the opportunity to get to know anyone at school, as they’re not even at school. And it’s not like he really wants to make friends, anyway. He’ll just leave Antwerp after high school, just have to say goodbye. The first chance he gets, he’s leaving on a train back to Utrecht. He’ll figure his life out from there. 

But for now, this is what he has: a mattress on the floor. Blank walls. Towering cardboard boxes. A stash of cigarettes and weed hidden between his mattress and the wall. His skateboard propped up against a stack of boxes. His laptop sitting on top of a box, ready for when he finally starts school, which he’s dreading. 

Just more things to do. 

More chores. 

Everything feels like a chore lately. If he thinks about it, everything’s felt like a chore for a while now. Instead of a to-do list, he has a fuck, I still have to do that list. It takes energy to roll out of bed. It takes commitment to wake up. 

It’s gotten worse since he got to Antwerp. Maybe, he thinks, because it’s so much work to exist in the same place as his father, who blames him for every single thing the universe throws his way. But he also thinks it’s because there’s no one here to shake him out of it. Back home, he would get texts and texts from his friends, telling him to meet them at the skatepark, at a cafe, at some party. Giving him things to do. 

Here, he still gets texts. 

He answers them laying in bed. 

He doesn’t know how to explain it. 

It feels like something is missing. Like there’s an emptiness in him. It’s easier to ignore when he’s around other people, when he’s listening to loud music and talking and laughing, or scrolling endlessly on social media. It’s easier to pretend there’s something there, on that empty shelf in his chest. 

Sometimes it’s sadness, he thinks. Especially since he moved. Sadness from missing home, missing people. But most of the time it’s just… nothing. 

And he can’t really spend time with his friends, so he scrolls. Or draws or paints. But he hasn’t been making much art beyond sketches lately. 

Part of him hopes he might make some friends when school starts, at least some people to chat with, or hang out with when it’s safe. But if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s not expecting to. He doesn’t even remember how he became friends with most of the friends he has. Kes and Isa had, for lack of a better word, adopted him when they were younger, had taken him under their wings and shown him the ropes of existence. 

Which feel like they’re unravelling. 

Lucas rolls over in bed, looking up at his laptop on the boxes, sighing. This is his life now. Boxes and the internet. The sound of his father tripping down the hall, grumbling to himself because Lucas isn’t there to scold. (This is just about the only instance Lucas can think of when he hears his father’s voice. The amount of words they’ve exchanged outside of their fights could usually be counted on two hands.) He’ll finally hear some voices that don’t belong to his father next week when he goes to class. 

The thought of going back to school, even through video calls and online assignments, makes him itch. He’s picked his lips red and raw in the past few days, without Isa to swat his hands away from his face before he can start tasting blood. When he lets his mind wander, his leg starts to bounce. His mom would set her hand on his knee, making it stop, and chuckle while telling him he’s making her seasick. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. 

He already has lots of emails from teachers; he checks every time he uses his laptop, but he hasn’t responded to any of them. They all sound the same.

This is new to all of us The school year looks very different this year Thank you all for doing your best! These are uncertain times This digital landscape is difficult to navigate This is a unique challenge This could be an opportunity for you

All monotonous, inspiring voices of people waiting. 

He doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to respond to any of them. 

He tries to think that is really is something everyone is experiencing. That This is new to all of us and We’re all doing what we can, but he feels like he’s in it alone. He knows even Kes and the others aren’t seeing each other in person, aren’t hugging and hanging out the way Lucas longs to, but at least they’re at home. Lucas is stuck in a box, and it feels like it’s closing around him. 

He sighs again, shutting his eyes. It’s not quite dark yet, but he feels exhausted, even after doing nothing all day. He’ll probably wake up in a few hours anyway. And he’ll open his blinds, looking out at the city, just half-alive, just like him. 

[enkelimagnus]

Cookbook

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1694 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky walks home from a long day of paperwork. On his path is a garage sale and a tired woman.

TW: cigarettes, smoking

Read on AO3

Part 2 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series, Part 1 here, Part 2 here

----------------

Bucky smokes on the way home from work.

Everything that brought some sort of pleasure was a currency back in his day. That was why they sent cigarettes to the front. It was easy to make them necessary, when you were under constant fire and needed something to keep you going. Anything that got you out of that hell was traded for, fought for. Some days, it was like nothing mattered more than the next ration shipment and its load of cigarettes, pin-up magazines and six-pence books.

In truth, he doesn’t have the habit he used to have. Hydra wouldn’t have that. Upside of brainwashing, he guesses. And it’s not like it burns the same way anymore. That’s the serum for you.

Still, sometimes, he pulls a cigarette out of its gore-decorated cardboard box, lights it and pretends it has the same effect on him now than it did back in muddy camps or candle-lit living rooms.

The day has been long. No raids, but he’d been stuck behind a desk doing fucking paperwork for the last two weeks-worth of missions. His reports are tired and concise, he hates doing them and he’s pretty sure it’s obvious to anyone who reads what he writes.

He wishes he could smoke then , at that stupid cramped desk, to make the endless signing and reading and writing easier, but you’re not allowed to smoke inside anymore. So he finds himself doodling on other pieces of paper when his mind drifts. His focus is not the best outside of missions.

He used to love writing shit. Steve had his drawings and Bucky had his words, in between everything else. They wrote stories on notes they passed in class in high school. When it got taken by the teacher, no one could understand what they were talking about. He used to make up worlds and think of men walking in space, and he wishes he could tell his 14-year-old self that there are people in the sky, and that he’ll meet them one day. That he’ll see aliens, real ones, and punch them in the face.

He would tell him all the good things about the universe, all the people in it, all about partners in crime and arms like Dugan or Morito or Jones, or Sam or Natasha, how he not only met Howard Stark but was his comrade, how Stark knew him as “Sergeant Barnes” or “Sarge”.

He’d tell him all the good, and none of the bad, none of how his dad would die in two years and he’d be leading the family in shabbos prayers at 16, none of how the people in the world could be cruel for the sake of their own fun, none of how Howard Stark said his name in shock before he punched in his skull with the metal fist that was now his left hand.

Those conversations with his younger self -- barely a man, already smart-mouthed and charming and cocky in the way teenagers are and in the way Bucky had tried to remain for as long as he could until the war drained it out of him -- evaporate in the smoke, in the cold Brooklyn air.

He doesn’t love writing anymore. His mind can’t create the worlds it used to make. He thinks in three languages on a good day, only knows how to write one of those, so whenever he tries, something’s always missing. On a bad day, he can barely string along one sentence, let alone tell a story.

And he’s got no one to tell them to, anyway.

It’s 7pm and the streets are dark and icy. In the last few weeks, the gloves he always wears to hide his left hand have not been an incongruous fashion statement.

It’s January now. There was snow last week, a soft blanket that made him fucking cry out of nowhere when he saw it through the window. It was gone soon, but it was there. And for once, it didn’t fall on Siberia. It fell on Brooklyn again. He never would have thought he’d seen snow on Brooklyn again.

That kind of shit pulls memories out of him like nothing else, and he’s thankful for them. They make it easier and harder at the same time.

He told Doctor Raynor about the shul that’s now a church, about how it was the worst pain he’d felt since he’d last been wiped. How that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to walk into Becky’s retirement home and see her as she is now. The pain of time lost is the worst one to bear.

That, and he’s pretty sure she knows what he’s done. His name and photo have been blasted on every news channel and every social media website after the UN bombing. There’s no way she wouldn’t recognize him, when he looks so similar to the brother she lost.

He has no desire to face his Becky now that he’s a murderer and a weapon of mass destruction, Hydra brainwashing or not. You don’t do that to your little sister.

Besides, she doesn’t need him. She’s got kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, and nephews and nieces and every sort of relative you can imagine except for parents and siblings. She’s taken care of, they visit her often, she doesn’t need the grief he’d bring. He can’t be selfish.

He stops to stab the butt of the cigarette into a wall but his eyes catch something else.

In the cold evening, there’s a few lights set up on the sidewalk, over some makeshift tables threatening to crumble over all the items on it. Everyday items mostly, kitchen stuff, books and a clock and some candlesticks.

At first glance, all of the pricier stuff has been sold already, and there’s a tired-looking middle-aged woman sitting on the stairs of the house behind the tables. She has a look on her face, heavy with emotions muddled so well they’re impossible to tell apart.

“Buy what you want,” she says. Her voice doesn’t carry. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have heard more than a mumble if his hearing wasn’t enhanced. “Pay what you want.”

How many times has she said that today?

He looks down at the items for a moment, the cheap metal candlesticks, some old plates decorated with blue flowers, a still plastic-wrapped, never used, frankly hideous challah cover, and a pile of various books. Most in English, a couple in what he assumes to be Polish, some in Yiddish. His eyes fall on one in particular, a cookbook. It looks old.

“Can I touch?” He asks, pointing at the cookbook.

The woman nods. “Yeah. Nothing very modern in there. Bubbe barely even made this anymore,” she explains. Ah. A bubbe passed and the stuff they can’t keep, they’re selling.

The cookbook’s unremarkable. It’s been used, obviously, there are stains of chocolate-covered fingerprints on some of the dessert pages as he flips through. It seems to be half in English and half in Yiddish. He reaches the page where the publication date would be. He doesn’t even know why he’s checking.

Entire Contents Copyrighted 1949 The B. Manischewitz Co. Printed in the U.S.A.

1949. It’s close enough. Really close enough.

“How much do you want?” He looks up at the mourner.

“I told ya, it’s how much you’re willing to give.”

Bucky makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. He rephrases the question. “How much do you want me to give?”

The woman makes eye contact again. She looks deeply surprised by his question. Hesitant, too. She has no idea what to reply.

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, starts going through the cash he has. He barely uses his credit card. Every month, when he gets his money from the army, he immediately withdraws most of it. It’s safer that way, and he knows how much he’s spending.

He counts out 180 dollars. It feels like a ridiculous amount for a cookbook, but the woman’s selling her bubbe’s shit like this, she’s still out at 7pm in January in Brooklyn and Bucky doesn’t have a lot of expenses anyway. He doesn’t really have expensive taste. 18’s a good number too, at least, it used to be, in his day.

“Peace be upon her,” He says quietly, when the woman opens her mouth at the bills he places in her hand. “It’s getting cold, you should go back inside,” he adds, quiet and coaxing, the tone he used to use when the neighbor’s son, Aaron, had a tantrum and sat on the stairs all evening, pretending to be mad at his parents.

Did he know the bubbe in question? Was she one of the kids from Hebrew school? It’s a little too far from his old neighborhood to be sure. He’s not going to ask.

The woman sighs a little, putting the money in her pocket when she realizes he’s not going to take any of it back.

He eyes the tables for a moment. “You need help packing up?”

She hesitates. He gets it, he’s a weird stranger who just bought an old cookbook for 180 dollars, it’s nighttime… He can’t tell her he’s not a serial killer, because he is one, and there’s going to be a moment where she remembers where she’s seen his face before. There usually is.

He holds his hands up, seemingly showing he’s harmless. It’s hilarious, really, because he’s never harmless. But contrary to Steve, he’s not massive. He’s more on the lean side of things, especially with his new arm.

“No pressure.”

She hesitates still, but he sees the exhaustion working away at her until she nods. The cookbook is put to the side and he helps her pack up the tables and the remaining things. He is careful not to display too much strength, and he’s also careful to keep his face in a neutral but positive sort of mask. His resting expression is meaner than needed.

He comes home much later than he thought he would, but he’s got a cookbook and some ideas of how to occupy his amnesia-riddled nights.

[letsperaltiago]

i don’t wanna miss you like the other girls do

#12: I can't stop thinking about you, #22: Sometimes I just can't control myself when around you and #28: I have never felt this way about anyone

or 

Jealous! Amy and brand new relationship-Peraltiago

Also: Do I need to make a statement saying that Amy obviously isn't the kind of person to think she owns anyone, but means it well and in an endearing way? There you go.

Enjoy!

Read here or on AO3 

It had all gone down in a spur of the moment-kind of moment that no one, even less Amy, had seen coming and honestly would’ve preferred to be without. It wasn’t really her place to say or do what she did, nor even as much as react upon it, alas… she did; she was in so deep with Jake Peralta and so she did it anyways.

Said moment had gone down during a weekend spent in Hartford, Connecticut, where the squad had attended a two day-seminar hosted by their brothers and sisters in the HPD.

Since the drive to Hartford was one of two hours, plus the seminar took place Saturday through Sunday, the squad had huddled together in two cars and were spending the entire weekend, Friday through Sunday, north of their respective homes in Brooklyn.

Immediately from the moment they arrived at the the hotel slash conference venue where the seminar was to be held everything seemed to set the scene for a pretty smooth, perhaps even fun, weekend where the squad would get to be entertained by other things that the wondering of why they weren’t at home on a weekend.

No one on the squad had any kind of expectations for the unknown city, except Holt who mentioned The Mark Twain House and Museum as a highly ranked point on his to be done-list, which meant their collective surprise upon exploring the city after checking into their rooms Friday afternoon was indeed positive enough for them to not hate the fact they were spending their weekend away from home doing work-related activities.

The very second the clock obnoxiously signalled 7 AM the following day, because not being home wasn’t an excuse, Amy Santiago was up and out of bed leaving Jake to regret, just for a tiny second, that he shared a room with his brand new paramour. It’d only been two weeks since coming to terms about “screw light and breezy”, and so far everything was smooth sailing although that morning was clearly an example of the two still figuring out this new dynamic of theirs.

“Ugh, can you stop being a decent person and get back in bed,” Jake groaned in pain when Amy without hesitance pulled aside the curtain to let in the bleak east coast-sun. If they’d been away on vacation in Mexico, even just as far as California, then maybe Jake would’ve accepted this. But there sure as hell was nothing less motivating than a sad barely there-sun hiding behind puffy clouds but still shining brightly enough to rip him out of his comfortable sleep. Especially when all there was to “look forward to”, quote Amy, was seminars; learning and powerpoint presentations that would haunt him in his next sleep.

“Stop whining and get up! The seminar starts at 8!” Amy hurried carelessly at him used to his many complaints of this childish nature. She didn’t let it take up too much of her time and had already moved on to grab clean clothes from her duffle bag to put on after her routine shower.

From where he had indeed not moved an inch Jake could hear the shower being turned on, door to the bathroom still open, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was exhausted from staying up just a bit too late watching stupid videos on his phone then he would’ve attempted to sneak into the steaming water with Amy because he could do that now… Insane.

On the other side of the shower curtain Amy had expected the same. There was very good reason why she’d added the little detail of leaving the door open and hoped would lure him out of bed. To her disappointment she quickly noticed her so-called sneaky plan was in vain leaving but one last attempt up her sleeve.  

“Jake, the breakfast buffet closes at 7.30!” she called out momentarily turning off the shower to allow her to pick up on potential sounds which could indicate her victory.

Indeed the last attempt was the right one: seconds later she heard the sound of quick footsteps and the ruffling of what she guessed was clothing items before a messy-haired, baggy-eyed Jake stumbled into the bathroom stark naked and on the edge of out of breath. The way to a man’s heart really was through his stomach, Amy though to herself amused.

“Mind if I join in real quick?” he smiled sheepishly trying his best to hide exhaustion.

All complaints and opposing to her morning ritual went down the drain with shower water the moment Amy turned it back on and smiled through biting down on her bottom lip.

Santiago: 1 - Peralta: 0

—

Perhaps Amy had twisted the truth just a tiny bit to get him out of bed so early. Jake figured this out when they 20 minutes later walked downstairs and saw a sign announcing that the first part of the seminar wasn’t scheduled for 8, like Amy had said, but rather 9 and buffet as well only closed an hour later than Amy’s information had told him. Lucky for her he was so infatuated that he let her off the hook with a playful jab to her sides and a comment about how she probably didn’t even want to date him but was simply a double-agent sent to improve his habits and lifestyle. This in return earned him a very familiar by now laugh, roll of this eyes and smile-combo: a combo he’d never get tired of and already felt like getting an eternal subscription to.

The seminar was okay, he guessed; either that or watching Amy furiously yet impressively neatly take notes with the speed of light beside him was enough to make it feel so. He was convinced of the latter when she afterwards with the brightest smile on her face showed him all the knowledge she’d managed to boil down to a few neatly organised pages in her notebook. It felt dangerous so early on in whatever they would turn out to be, yet also so very natural that in his world nothing was greater than the sight of Amy Santiago smiling at him. A sight he’d quickly grown addicted to already years back although without coming to terms with it until some months prior.

“Are you sticking around for the Q & A?” Amy interrupted his wandering thoughts whilst getting a new page in her notebook ready as a few people started leaving their seats and the conference room.

“Nah,” Jake shook his head honestly knowing that it would be lying to both himself and her if he tried to act like he genuinely cared about sticking around for an additional 30 minutes of re-explaining what he’d already spent 2 hours zoning in and out of. “I think I’ll head to the lounge. I’m feeling snacky.”

“Of course,” Amy smiled shaking her head in an evident manner. “See you at lunch then?”

“Yup,” he got out of his seat before adding a “see you at lunch, nerd,” accompanied by one last teasing smile before joining Rosa on her walk towards the exit. The comment combined with his soft brown eyes and warm smile was enough to have Amy feeling like a puddle of mush in her seat. To know that said brown eyes and warm smile were… hers? It felt weird to say or even just think it since they hadn’t officially declared themselves boyfriend/girlfriend but definitely were something; something not light and breezy; perhaps solid was the appropriate antithesis to use?

No matter what - light, breezy, solid or whatever they could be defined as - when her eyes trained after Jake walking off for just tiny bit longer than intended, Amy definitely noticed how a group of four women, colleagues, she assumed, sitting on the other side of the middle isle between her and them where Jake was walking chatted and giggled as their eyes switched back and forth between each other and Amy’s favorite partner. In spite of the fact that she was en excellent lipreader Amy, to her curiosity’s dismay, couldn’t exactly tell what these women were saying or giggling about however two things were certain: one was that they were in one way or another very interested in Jake, even after he’d left the room, and two was that Amy didn’t like it. An uneasy tightness formed in her stomach telling her so and she for the following 30 minutes of a Q & A she had looked forward to couldn’t focus enough to take any actual notes. All she was left with post Q & A were mindless doodles on an otherwise blank page which was both a waste of paper and but even worse of no good use for her knowledge.

The second the seminar was officially completely over which was everyone’s cue to leave for lunch, Amy did her best, notebook and pencil case held tightly to her chest, in an attempt to get as close to the giggly group of women from before as the room’s population walked out of the room in one big stream. Completely forgetting that she was supposed to meet up with the Jake and the others for lunch she automatically followed the four women to the hotel bar where they settled down - and so of course so did Amy simply opting for a few seats further down in conjunction with ordering herself a soda as to not attract herself any suspicion or attention.

“Oh my gosh, Sydney, you have to figure out who that guy from the seminar was!”

This definitely caught Amy’s attention, both to her pleasing and bitterness: pleasing because she’d been right about her gut-feeling and bitterness because that guy was her guy. Not whoever this Sydney was.

“Yeah, he was pretty cute right?” Who Amy guessed was Sydney, a tall, beautiful blonde clad in a nice pantsuit, Amy had to admit, answered just as enthusiastically.

“Totally! And since he’s here, probably, also a cop,” the same friend who had started the conversation chimed in and Amy wished to God she’d just shut up rather than stuff her friend’s head with bad ideas like hitting on Amy’s own guy.

“I smell work place-romance, ladies,” a third friend giggled riling the other’s up along with her. To them it was all a joke, fun, some kind of competition of cat and mouse but Amy, at her respective end of the bar, was feeling herself starting to boil, more than she’d like to admit, at the thought of someone else taking away from her what she’d just struggled for so long to obtain. It was her cute cop-guy from the seminar; her work-place romance; her… whatever! And also what kind of dumb name was Sydney even? Jake and Sydney? So dumb.  

“I mean we are here for another entire day so I’ll have to make sure to run into him at some point. Tonight…” the tone of Sydney’s voice took on a sultry undertone that had Amy shuffling uncomfortably in her seat. “… wouldn’t be a bad time to run into him.” The smug smile on the blonde’s face had Amy feeling like punching it right off of her.

As if on cue, like timing couldn’t have been any worse, friend number four made her presence be known and squealed with excitement while pointing which of course immediately earned herself the three other’s full attention. “Girls! There he comes! Right there!”

Within seconds all four girls heads snapped to the side with wide hungry eyes reminding Amy of what a flock of vultures looked like prior to ripping apart an animal cadaver in a documentary she’d watched a few days ago.

Vulture-like or not, Amy’s head was included in this collective redirecting of focus and followed the direction in which the friend had pointed to.

And there he was indeed: Jake Peralta, clad in his navy blue long-sleeved NYPD-shirt and freshly cut hair with the tiniest hint at a beginning forehead curl, was walking into the lounge that very moment seemingly looking around for someone and also completely unaware of the people watching him as his entrance seems to unfold in slow-motion. Amy almost couldn’t blame the girls for drooling because the cocky detective looked really good walking into the room completely oblivious to the attention he’d brought upon himself.

“Damn… He looks even cuter than what I remembered. I have to give it a try, don’t I?” Sydney questioned, obviously rhetorically already knowing what she wanted as she almost drooled like an agitated Doberman.  

“I mean if you won’t, Sydney, then I will!” the friend who’d noticed Jake enter the room playfully challenged, and even though it was all fun and games to them, Amy felt like her seat was on fire making it almost impossible to stay passive and seated for much longer.

“Oh, hell no. Stay away from him. This one’s mine, Jasmin!”

There was no telling if the line had already been crossed multiple inappropriate remarks ago and she’d managed by the grace of God to stay seated or if this last comment was the one to exceed what Amy considered her very flexible limits. Either way, no matter what, the first one option or the other, this time Amy failed to bite her tongue. She threw a comment out into the open without thoroughly considering its consequences out in the open fora first thus letting the group, especially Sydney, know what was weighing on her mind.

“You've got a lot of nerve to call a complete stranger ‘yours’,” the borderline growl of a tone in which the words came out in had Amy feeling like another person: not one she specially liked. This person, or perhaps even primitive beast was a better way of describing this persona, rooted deep down in her apparently found it very necessary to protect what she already within two weeks had come to mark as her territory. Never before had she felt so green-eyed, so absolutely reckless. This being said her instincts were more vigilant than ever before and it virtually felt out of her hands.

In the meantime, while Amy was looking at her decision in retrospect yet not at all since she wasn’t doing anything to prevent any further complications, the women had turned in their seats to collectively shoot quizzical, annoyed looks resembling daggers with their eyes at Amy.

“Excuse me?” The blue-eyed blonde challenged Amy to take her statement back which roughly said only goaded her raven-haired opponent further down the warpath.

“I said: You've got a lot of nerve to call a complete stranger ‘yours’.”

Feeling herself so ice-cold, so sure about something partially dumb and actually really petty would normally have Amy back down right away but something deep inside of her, like a raging fire, had her stand her ground. Apparently that’s what Jake Peralta could bring out in certain people, both Amy and Sydney included, because the blonde was not backing down just, rather instead coolly took another shot at Amy in the hopes to have her back off.

“Why shouldn't I? It’s not like he’s everyone, right? I’m for sure not letting any of these girls run off with him,” she pointed to the her friends behind her, the switch from threatening Amy to mindlessly joking and giggling with her little girl-squad having Amy metaphorically slack-jawed. Luckily not physically: there was no way she was showing this bimbo any sign of weakness.

“Okay, well…” Amy had had it for good and all consideration of rationality was out the window. Crowded police seminar or not there was no way in hell this light haired pest with her greedy crystal blue eyes and three flippant followers were getting the last word.“…let me explain to you why how you shouldn't assume and make people your property. Especially when you don’t even know them.”

Yes, she was being a hypocrite saying this but she was actually Jake’s special someone and not just some stranger: she did have a say in this.

For a brief second Sydney seemed shocked and like she actually considered Amy’s bold statement, but it didn’t last and before long blondie was back in the game apparently not satisfied with the way things could be left off. They way things should be left off, if you asked Amy.

“Oh, so you’re his “girlfriend” or what?,” the tone of Sydney’s voice clearly implied she didn’t believe anything Amy said.

All the, not doubt per se since she knew she wanted to be with Jake and he with her, but perhaps the insecurities about what stage they were currently at melted and slipped away as water off a duck’s back. It didn’t matter what exactly they were when one thing, the most important fact, was sure: they liked each other and they were going… steady. They were each other’s, politically correct to say or not.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I am,” Amy’s voice and eyes drilled into Sydney’s with a kind of confidence she’d never felt before, perhaps something Jake had brought into her life along with himself.

In return it earned her a mocking scoff.

“Easy for you to say. He might as well be a random guy you’ve spotted in the crowd,” one of Sydney’s friends stepped in to help her friend in what Amy knew was a lost cause on their part.

“He could be a stranger,” Amy paused very briefly biting her lip as to refocus, hopefully managing to not say anything that could potentially make the pointless, stupid conversation even worse. This but also she still did want to make very clear that the random, cute cop walking into the lounge (who even knew where exactly he was at this point?) was hers.

“But he’s not: he’s my boyfriend.”

It was as Amy allowed herself a small halt to provide her lungs with fresh air, just in case Sydney felt like dragging out the discussion, when cute cop-guy very suddenly made his exact position  known. He was walking straight up to the bar and them displaying smiley lips and eyes plastered on Amy. All the women’s eyes - Amy, Sydney and friends - immediately forgot about their opponent to focus on newly reappeared target who obviously had no clue about the fact that he was walking into the belly of the beast when he made it to his destination next to Amy.

“Hey, Ames.”

He nonchalantly stretched out his right arm to place a hand on the bar behind her crating a point of support for him to lean his weight onto.

“You catching up with some old friends?”

Oh, sweet naive Jake, Amy thought but also lowkey melted as he very credulously sent Sydney and her friend’s a warm, welcoming smile wanting to make a good impression on who he believed were part of Amy’s social circle.

“Eh,” Amy smiled culpably knowing telling Jake the truth about the situation would be the epitome of an embarrassment so early on in this new relationship of theirs. “I was just making small-talk, I guess. You know… meeting new people - yay.”

She couldn’t have sounded any less awkward and enthusiastic, even if she tried. Jake, on his part, was either really openminded or had figured out there was a good reason as to why she acted like she did and didn’t want to dig deeper into it, settling for an understanding nod.

“Well, anyhow… I don’t mean to interrupt anything but you never showed up for lunch and so I just popped in to try and find you.”

Even head turned to look at Jake who was slightly behind her meaning she could only see Sydney out of the corner of her eye, Amy could tell her smug, confident look from before was faltering with every exchange of words between Jake and Amy though they were far from flirty or telling about their relationship in any way. And, yes, she could’ve left it at that, as undramatic at it had all managed to turn out but Amy, well aware of how petty it was, she knew, couldn’t help but want to conclusively knock in the nail of victory.  

“Aw,” Amy spun a quarter of a round on her barstool to face Jake behind her before affectionally placing a hand on his chest - both for the sake of the show but also because, wow, she could actually do that as she pleased now. Something she was still getting used to.

“That’s very sweet of you, babe,” the word in focus was always said in an affectionate tone but this specific context definitely had it over-enhanced and laced with extra sweetness to make her message very clear.

Then breaking her own no making out at work-rule, the only rule to have survived “screw light and breezy”, she couldn’t help herself and gave into the enraged possessiveness inside of her. She leaned in to place a soft, just a bit longer than a peck, kiss to Jake who automatically lightly bent his neck to eliminate the remaining space between their current height difference. The kiss was good, they always were with him, but it definitely had to send a signal that hopefully Sydney would pick up on: do not touch.

Amy, not wanting to break her own rule too much and give in to straight up inappropriate PDA, then pulled back to throw the women-squad a smirk over her shoulder as her hand never left the safety of Jake’s blue shirt.

“Anyways… I think we’re done here? Right, girls?”

To her immense pleasure Amy was met by a mixture of bitterness and surprise which had to mean she’d proven her point. Finally. Jake Peralta, officially boyfriend or not, was not to be considered anyone but hers - apart from being very much his own person as well.

In the meantime, slightly shocked but also far from displeased by Amy’s very out of blue-kiss, Jake stood passive by waiting for his partner’s upcoming directions. He didn’t have to wait for long because whoever these other women were, Amy was done with them and hopped off of her stool promptly grabbing his hand to walk away with. It took him a few feet of walking in silence before Jake could fully assemble and give meaning to everything that had just happened. He turned to question a still smug, also a bit guilty-looking, Amy.

“Okay, so are you going to tell me what all that was about?”

They kept walking out of the lounge and down one of the many halls of the hotel.

“Nothing.”

Jake was perhaps naive at times as he saw a lot of good in everything, which Amy loved, but he knew a guilty lip bite when he saw it and it was currently on full display on the raven haired beauty.  

“Hey,” he pulled her aside into one of the many small wall pockets leading to individual hotel rooms as he wished to seclude them in hopes of it easing her into telling him the truth. “What’s up with you?” he smiled knowingly taking some intensity out of the moment. It’s not like he was angry or anything, curious being a better word for it.

“Nothing,” she smiled sheepishly trying to hurry out of the secluded area but quickly realising she’d failed once she felt his hand wrap around her upper arm to gently pull her back in. Her back gently fell back against the wall before him forcing her to face him.  

He lightly tilted his head to the side much like a puppy would when feeling peculiar which was hard to resist when his eyes, soft and brown, had so much resemblance with a sweet puppy’s as well. She could tell he was teasing her, aware of the fact that he knew something she didn’t and it drew her insane in both the worst and best way - Jake Peralta summed up for you.

“Now I don’t believe that… girlfriend.”

In contrast to the playfulness controlling her body seconds ago Amy Santiago suddenly felt much more put on the spot, it clearly showing by the way her blood all at once seemed to fire up her cheeks. He’d overheard her talking to Sydney and the others; he’d heard her declare herself as his girlfriend when they hadn’t even agreed on calling each other that yet. The nervousness tricked her into making a loud swallow; yet another tell.

“Oh… y-you heard that?” She stuttered.

Jake nodded firmly almost encapsulating her against the wall when he took a step forwards, but made sure to leave just enough space for her to not feel straight up trapped against her will. A small smug smile on display. Why was he enjoying this? Didn’t he see that he was torturing her?

“I’m sorry - I really didn’t mean to. I know we’ve just barely begun seeing each other as more than friends, it’s just these girls were saying things about you and sometimes I just can't control myself when around you and then it just kind of-“

He cut off her rambling by pressing his lips to hers, much needed, gently pressing her up against the wall although. Only because they were hidden from the majority of the hotel’s population, Amy allowed and excused this - or so she told herself. The feeling of his welcoming lips made her forget the mess for a few seconds, just giving into how good of a kisser Jake Peralta was, and even for a few seconds after their lips parted again she was speechless and dumbfounded by how she’d gotten herself a guy this great.

“Stop apologising,” he chuckled quickly using his thumb to wipe the corner of his mouth which inevitably made him look that much hotter.

“I know we didn’t exactly “agree on it” and that it’s still all very new, like you said, but, Ames…” his eyes mellowed after looking just a tad too cocky and alluring before, during and right after the kiss. This was definitely a different shade of Jake looking into her eyes and talking: a very soft one. “… I don’t need a certain trial period or approval from anyone to know that I’m your boyfriend and you’re my girlfriend.”

Upon hearing these words coming from the one and only Jake Peralta with recipient being herself, Amy Santiago she felt her heart shoot through the roof, take a trip around the moon and fly straight back into her chest where it had her feeling like crying, smiling, screaming and laughing all at once: a very maniac-like but also wonderful feeling. The most wonderful as far as she could recall.

“And I’m not going to force you to tell me exactly what happened, but just based on the way your fists were basically clenched when I walked up to you, am I wrong to assume that they were, let’s say, treading on your territory…”

If she’d been blushing before then now her face was definitely on fire and looking down at her feet apparently didn’t help cover it at all. The silence was enough of an answer, one which he chuckled in reaction to.

“It’s okay, Ames. At least I came around before you could Jimmy Brogan them.”

At this sympathetic joke reminding her of a time that seemed to be so long ago she had to look back up. She couldn’t hold back a chuckle and it warmed her heart to share it with him just like when he shared his with her. All the previous insecurities: had she gone too far? Let her tongue run away with her? Given too much of herself too fast to something as brand new as her relationship with Jake? It had all been answered by a few simple words, caring eyes and a kiss that told her everything she needed to know.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m this crazy-jealous, possessive type. I’m normally not like this, I promise. I guess I have never felt this way about anyone before and maybe that’s why I’m acting up. Amy I crazy?” a tingling feeling of vulnerability made an encore.

“No, you’re not because I’m right here freaking out, in the best kind of way, because of what you just said. This is the first time I feel like this too, like I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s scary and great all at once.” Jake was quick to wash away said vulnerability she was feeling and replaced it with a prickling affection and hope.

“So… no more feeling insecure about us?” he offered some kind of peace-offering, partly to her but mostly to their shared insecurities, trying to not come off as too gluttonous as he slid his hands onto her waist wanting to soak in a new feeling of belonging. A feeling he’d found in her.

“Deal,” Amy accepted the offering with a sheepish smile as her insides flipped upside down witch excitement. All she wanted was to be with this guy, fully and greatly, and this confrontation and mutual agreement would allow her to not give a damn about future external factors.  

“Noice. Smart,” escaped him in optimistic relief but before she could roll her eyes at it he leaned in to softly kiss her again. Being held by him, hands gently tracing the front pockets of her pants while his lips took her to another world, was something she could never deny him or herself - screw the rules. Lips collided over and over again, one tug bringing on the next until they lost sense of anything and were full on making out like a pair of horny high schoolers in-between classes. This is what they brought out in each other: happiness, fire, want and so many more things they’d both spent the last two weeks wondering how they’d lived without before.

Unfortunately their movie-like moment had to be cut somewhat short as people coming back from lunch started flooding the hall passing by their little intimate pocket in the wall. Amy liked Jake but she also liked staying professional and this Jake respected. They jumped back, creating an exaggerated amount of space between them before sending passing strangers innocent smiles as if they hadn’t just spent the last few minutes declaring feelings and making out at an interstate police seminar.

“So, Detective Santiago…” his voice took on a brand new tone of gravity - a tone she also recognised as acting. “Shall we head over for lunch?”

“I’m sorry to come bearing such bad news, Detective Peralta, but people are flooding the hall as per consequence of the fact that lunch is over,” Amy played along taking on a serious tone and posture.

“Aw, man… Seriously?” he whined childishly, his recent serious persona from seconds before immediately  forgotten.

“Sorry… boyfriend,” she smiled sheepishly in an attempt to cheer him up which she had to praise herself, as it obviously worked seeing his face instantly lit up.

“Whatever… It was worth losing lunch over, girlfriend.”

[dalamjisung]

bedroom ceiling ✽ bang chan

word count: 2623

genre: angst

pairing: bang chan x reader

description: you type and delete and type and delete and wonder when will you finally send.

[inspired on the song BEDROOM CEILING by SODY: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IbUOL39weZY]

Hey.

Hey

He

H

…

You delete the message once again. The blue and grey bubbles taunting you as you sigh and toss to the other side, eyes falling on the alarm clock. A present, but you rather not remember that. 3:14AM, it says, and you really wish you could convince yourself that the clock is wrong and that it’s barely midnight. 

“I need sleep,” You murmur, almost like a plea to the emptiness that surrounds you. 

Your window, big and open, allows the outside light to shine in the small room. The moon is barely a sliver, looking like a tired eye that is barely open. His eyes used to be bright like that, even when he was tired. You shake your head, trying to avoid every and all memories of him; of his eyes and his smile. 

“I need to sleep,” You repeat yourself, tears stuck on your throat, pressuring the feelings you’ve been keeping in, out. “Please let me sleep.”

You roll onto your back, eyes boring holes in your ceiling. You observe its unmoving whiteness, its constant sameness and you can’t help but wonder why hasn’t it changed? Why am I the only one that’s changed? Your phone shines and you grab it so fast that it almost flies out of your hand. A message, although not from him. Wheein, your best friend, has been texting you for almost two weeks in a row, wondering what’s going on, why don’t you pick up, why is he avoiding her, why, why why why– but you don’t know. You don’t know why every time the phone rings is another cut to your heart, and you don’t know why you know it’s not him calling. You don’t know why he left and left his things, and you don’t know why leaving the house feels like leaving him, so you just stay in. But you can’t tell her that; it would only upset her, and you don’t know why you should care, but maybe it’s because that’s the only thing you have to care about right now. There are many ‘don’t know’s’ and ‘maybe’s’ and you like to think that it’s not just you. 

These walls, you think, looking around your room. No more frames or unreleased posters on the walls. No  more doodles on the door or the floor or the window. No more CD’s or demos or music sheets. No more him or his friends or your friends. These walls know a lot. More than our friends combined. What would Wheein say if she saw me like this, typing things that I’ll never have the courage to send? What would she do? If she saw what these walls did, what would she do?

In the end, you fall asleep from exhaustion at six in the morning. The sun wakes you up, though, a couple of hours later, and once again, you call work to tell them that you are still feverish and that by Monday you should be all healed. You’re expected to, anyways. The day goes by in a rush, and you spend the day typing and deleting and typing and deleting and typing and deleting and. And then you switch to your notes, and you type and type and type and you don’t need to delete anything because no one will ever see this. No one should.

You left today. First me, then the room. Through the hallway, then out the door, and then out the building. You left in a snowy night when I needed you to stay warm, and I think I’ll always remember that when I see snow. How you left. Today. 

I miss you. I tried to text you this today but decided not to. You must be, or at least should be, hurting too– if not for me, then for the three years you lost on me. I prefer to think that you’re hurting for me, but it’s okay if you’re not. Really. 

I tried to text you today. I gave up after ‘hey.’ You left so I should respect that, right? You chose leaving, and I guess I chose letting you go. I just thought you should know I regret it. I’ve been regretting it… everyday. I miss you, but I don’t think that counts for much now, anyways. Good luck on whatever you’re doing, wherever you are. 

The list goes on and on with unsend crafted texts and you follow your ritual of reading them all again, hoping to sleep. You don’t sleep at night, but you still hope to. Sleeping is the only time you have that your heart doesn’t hurt, that your mind doesn’t think, and that you soul doesn’t cry. You wonder if he feels the same but then you remember all the times you two fought over his bad sleeping habits and his overworking tendencies; and you achieve what you want. 

Once again, you cry yourself to sleep.

                                                       ————————————

The doorbell rings and you feel anxious. It’s been two weeks and some days since your routine of nothingness has been broken and opening the door for an unknown visitor counts as a disturbance.

“Who is it?” You shout from the safety of your living room.

“You better open up, Y/N Y/L/N,” Wheein voice is muffled but you’d recognize it anywhere. “Or so help me god, I will kick this door down.”

You run to obey her, knowing that she isn’t lying. You open up a sliver, at first, afraid of her reaction to your physical appearance; you have dark circles under your eyes and you clearly lost weight. You know your friend to make a big deal out of issues and although you know it’s only because she cares, you son’t have the energy to sit down with her and explain everything.

“Bitch, you better let me in,” She seethes. “For your own good.”

Sighing, you obey once again, swinging the door open. Her gasp is ridiculously loud and, if possible, makes you feel even worse. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You frown. Why didn’t you? 

“I don’t know…” You mumble, suddenly embarrassed for not relying on her when you needed the most. 

“You don’t know?!” She repeats, voice softening out of offense. “I called Felix to know what was going on… and imagine my surprise when he tells me that Chan up and left!”

“Wheein–“

“No,” She interrupts, hand in front of you. “I know what you are going to say. It wouldn’t bother me. It wouldn’t upset me. It wouldn’t anger me. Y/N, and your boyfriend just left. You don’t talk to your family and you are to shy to talk to other people about your private life. Who are you going to rely on if not your best friend? This is what I’m here for, love. For you!”

“I’m sorry,” You apologize, voice choked up with tears. No matter how much you cry, you just can’t get used to the feeling of crying. “I’m so sorry, but I felt so lost and alone and I didn’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?” Wheein grabs your hand and takes you to your couch. You look at her, but you don’t really feel like you’re seeing her. 

You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to, you think to yourself, trying to focus. 

“I let him leave,” You mumble, closing your eyes tightly. “I didn’t know what to then and I let him leave and it feels as if he took me with him and left… this.”

“Y/N, all you had to do was call me,” She says, hugging you close. 

“I can’t sleep,” You tell her. As if you open a gate, you tell her everything. “I can’t eat, I can’t focus, I can’t do anything. If I don’t make myself cry myself to exhaustion, I stay awake all night, replaying the fight, and then the pointing, and the blaming. I see him leave, every night. I hear his voice and his laughter and his cry and I just feel like I’m going insane.”

“I’m going to assume you haven’t talked to him ever since…” She whispers. You lay down, head on her lap as she caresses your hair. 

“I haven’t,” You confirm. “I tried texting him, but it all ends up on my notes and I just can’t do it. I’m ashamed. That I didn’t fight. For him. Me… us.”

“It’s not on you, Y/N,” Wheein tries to reassure you. “It really isn’t.”

“It sure feels like it is,” You blink, trying to stay awake, but soon succumbing to her comforting kindness.

“But–“

“I prefer it to be my fault then his,” You yawn. “I don’t want him hurting, Wheein. Ever.”

She just nods, head falling back and you just know she’s doing her damn best not to cry for you. You chuckle lightly, finally feeling tired enough to sleep. You feel your friend moving after what feels like a couple of hours but you don’t pay her much attention, assuming she’s leaving for the night.

The day follows like the other ones, with the addition of Wheein. She is surprisingly supportive of your sedentary coping mechanisms and joins you in your third Friends marathon since the break up. The sun shines bright today, and you can’t help but zone out while your friend points at something that Rachel did. You can’t remember the last time you actually went out and enjoyed the sun, so you reach out, fingers dancing through the rays as if you had to move it around to feel the familiar warmth you crave so much. You don’t– feel it, that is, and you let out a disappointed chuckle. What are you expecting? Some guidance? Some comfort, from this bright ball of fire? A memory, perhaps? Like the one of you two in the park on your birthday and–

“Y/N?” Wheein calls. “Are you listening?”

“Huh?” You look at her, eyes wide in surprise. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

She smiles a sad type of smile and you hate it. The pity make you feel even worse. 

“Yeah,” She nods to the center table. “Your phone.”

You look at the device and shakes you head.

“I’ll see it later.”

“You might wanna see it now.”

You look at her suspiciously. “Why?”

She just shrugs. “Because.”

You shake your head again. “Later.”

For some reason, you don’t feel anxious anymore. Just fear.

Fear because you are either over it, or you gave up. And both of those make you want to cry.

                                                      ————————————

Jeongin: Noona, he’s not well.

Jeongin: Noona, please call him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

Jeongin: Noona, please. I’m scared. He is angry and sad and I’m pretty sure he’ll collapse anytime now.

Jeongin’s messages really test your strength. You want to comfort the young boy, but at the same time you know that that’s not your task anymore. They are his family. They are supposed to comfort him. You have to understand that. You try– you really do– but you can’t help but miss those boys. Jisung and his silly jokes that piss off Hyunjin; Felix and Changmin bickering like two brothers; Seungmin clinging to Jeongin. 

And you miss him. You miss Bang Chan and how he mothers the boys around. How he always demands the best of his members, but is also the first one to offer a hand for any difficulties they might stumble upon. You miss his stubbornness and the many times you had to carry him to bed from his make-shift studio in your apartment’s coffee table. You miss how he hogs all the covers and instead of sharing them, pulls you closer to cuddle, and you especially miss how he wakes you up every morning when he tries to sneak back out to work. You wonder who’s forcing him to sleep since you’re not there to cling onto his limbs and force him to sleep just thirty more minutes. 

Who takes care of him now? Who remembers him of his meals? Who makes him go to sleep? Once Chan starts working, it’s really hard for him to take a break. Who remembers him of that?

Y/N: I’m sorry. If he doesn’t want me to contact him, there is nothing I can do, Jeongin.

Jeongin: Who said he doesn’t want you to?

Y/N: He is the one that left. That says enough.

You put the phone away and decide to take a shower. It’s been a while since you truly enjoyed the feeling of the scorching hot water falling on your back, and you stay there until the water isn’t hot anymore and the day isn’t ending anymore– it’s over. You get dressed on sweats that are too right for you and you can’t help but miss his oversized hoodies and how they felt as if you were being constantly cuddled. The bed feels cold and hard but you don’t care, exhaustion finally washing over your body. 

Hands moving to the phone in the corner of the bed, it’s almost as if your finger involuntarily open the text message app, typing and deleting and typing and deleting and. You take a deep breath; and type. And type and type and send. It doesn’t feel as cathartic as you’d wish, but it feel like something– something important. You know he’s not gonna answer, at least not tonight, since he’s probably drowning himself in work, so you open the chat again, finger caressing your blue bubbles.

I stay up late and I talk to the moon

And I can't stop telling him all about you

Wonder if you do the same thing I do

Your constant companion shines through the window once again, offering you some dim light, enough to allow you to see shadows of the objects in your room, but not enough for you to know what is what. Is that how he felt with you? Could he tell you loved him? Or did you dim your emotions?

These four white walls they know more than my friends

They watch me type messages I'll never send

This is the place that I just can't pretend to be alright

The memories of him in your bed come back, and you smile, nostalgia taking the place of hurt. Chan always said that inside those four walls, you didn’t have to pretend. Happiness, sadness, anger, regret. You could feel it all. And now here you are, wishing you didn’t, actually, felt all of those. How ironic. 

Is your bedroom ceiling bored like mine?

Of you staring at it all the time

'Cause it's seen so many nights

Where I cry and I yell at the sky

For not telling you how I feel

Does he? Does he stare at his ceiling, his walls, and feels as embarrassed as you? As impotent? Does he regrets walking out as much as you regret not going after him? You should’ve said, should’ve shouted, should’ve cried– you should’ve something. Hiding is never the answer. Chan loved you with all he had, and yet, you were always too closed, too shy to love him back. It wasn’t fair. So now you let him be. He chose to leave and you don’t blame him; you blame yourself instead. 

You almost put the phone down for the night, finger hovering over the side button, when you see it. The grey bubble.

…

Hey.

--------------------------------------

Heya lovelies! How is everyone doing? I hope you all enjoy this story... I’ve been feeling really down lately and got inspired to write this :P Please please please let me know what you think, you’re comments always make my day❤️ love you all and thank you for always supporting me!

[vangoddamn]

Broken legs and love hearts

Van broke his leg and is laid up with a cast. Y/n is sitting next to him, doodling little hearts on their cast to cheer them up.

Warnings- none

-----------

It was dark outside now, the sky was painted dark hues and stars were hidden by clouds made visible by the moon. Trees blew violentely and rain hit hard against the windows of your living room. The telly screen was bright, the only source of light other than the dim of the lamp, but the sound was merely background music to the both of you.

You were carefully positioned in Vans arms marking papers, trying your best not to move vans leg which was propped up on the coffee table. Saying Van was restless with the cast was an understatement, this was the first time in over a day he'd finally gotten any sleep. You'd coaxed him into relaxing with his favourite film and promised him you wouldn't fall asleep, this was the only way he'd relax.

He'd achieved his broken leg by falling of stage, which he'd like to claim as graceful but in all honesty was far from. When you were told he was in hospital you had nearly died in shock before being informed it was only a injured leg. It was at the last end of the new year tour anyway so he insisted on finishing.

Unfortunately for him that meant he was even more exhausted coming home and he was in need of serious rest. Being Van he definitely did not want anything to do with what that entailed and tried to go on like usual. But there was only so long your boy could go on before needing to crash. So crash he did, involuntarily, but crash he did.

You got yourself up to close the curtains and moved to switch the telly screen off for the record player which sat by the sofa. You chose a misculanious jazz album Bondy had got for your birthday a while back. Making teas before bed was last on your agenda and took very little time to complete.

By the time you returned to your boyfriend, he had stirred in the absence of your body against his and he was stretching out across the sofa. A wide grin crept onto his tired face and his eyes lit up momentarily when he noticed the hot beverages you held in your hands. Sitting up straight away as best he could to take a mug and welcome you back in his free arm.

"did you enjoy your little nap" you smugly questioned him, proud of yourself somehow that he got some sleep. In answer he gave you a cheeky eye roll and squeezed you tighter into his chest. You got back to work finishing off the last of the papers you had to mark.

"What do you wanna do this summer?" The question was out of the blue and maybe a little random, but very Van.

"maybe go back to Llandudno for a bit" you smile up at him moving yourself to doodle on his cast with the red pen you had. "That'd be nice, see Mary and Bernie"

"I'll phone her about it, am sure she'd be reet with that" you couldn't wait for summer, especially with Van and the festival's lined up.

The teas were drunk, love hearts had been drawn on Vans cast to cheer him up and it wasn't long before you both headed to your shared bedroom. Van was already in tracky bottoms and he replaced his hoodie for a baggy t-shirt, settling into bed as carefully as possible. You snuggled in beside him, just listening to his breathing until you could tell he had dozed off again.

A/n: hey my loves, been really needing a bit of soft Van so I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing this one! Was gonna try finish a request for today but I can't seem to get it right, hopefully it'll be done for next week! Anyway I hope you all have an amazing week xx em

[taeken-my-heart]

Moirai Chapter 8

Summary: On your 18th birthday a name appears on your wrist. The name of your soulmate. It’s a momentous day that everyone looks forward to, but you’ve always brushed aside; refusing to believe in a fickle mistress called destiny. But what happens when on the morning of your 18th birthday you wake to find the name of your mortal enemy? Jeon Jungkook.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Soulmates au/ Enemies to lovers au. Angst, fluff, bickering, romance, eventual smut.

Word Count: 4790

Notes: There is a read more placed after the first paragraph, but we all know tumblr is weird so if it doesn’t show up I’m sorry :(

This chapter is a big one in terms of what happens, but the next one is even bigger. This is a very brief reprieve from big angst so enjoy it while it’s here, my loves. 

**

“No, see, you can’t put a comma here because that would be a comma splice.” Jungkook said, taping the delete button on your computer and you frowned.

“I’ve never even heard the term comma splice; I think you’re making it up.”

Jungkook chuckled, shaking his head and turning to look at you, “just because you weren’t paying attention in class doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. A comma splice is when you take a comma and try to use it to connect two independent clauses. It happens often when people are trying to write something in their tone of voice and they put commas where they naturally pause, but that’s not always the right place for a comma.”

“The only Claus I know is Santa.” You deadpanned and Jungkook laughed; exhausted.

“Y/N!” He smiled and you shrugged up at him, lips peeling upwards into a grin.

“Unfortunately, I’m dead serious. I told you I’m not good at English!”

“Well you could be better if you just listened in class.” He scolded, scooting further up in his seat and you scowled, “don’t give me that look, I’ve seen you in class. You doodle a lot or read the posters around the room. You’re never actually paying attention.”

“Ah!” You clutched at your heart dramatically, “I’ve been caught!”

Jungkook laughed, leaning over to pull a notebook from his bag and you watched him curiously, the muscles in his back tightening as he dug through. “So,” you murmured as he sat back up, flipping open his notebook and glancing at you, “did you ever ask Ella out?”

He looked up at you in surprise, clearing his throat. “Ah, no, I,” he rubbed awkwardly at his wrist underneath the fabric of his sweater, “it didn’t feel right…right now. Timing, I guess.”

You frowned, shifting in your seat to face him, English assignment forgotten. “She knows you like her though, right?”

He blushed, ducking his head further into his chest, flipping to a fresh page in his book, ready to take notes. “Ah, yeah, she does.”

“So, I don’t get it, what’s the hold up?”

“It’s just…it’s complicated. Don’t try to distract me, missy, you still have to finish this assignment and I’ve only got 30 minutes left to help you, so less chatting and more working!” He scolded, glaring over at you and you rolled your eyes with a smile.

“Sure, sure.”

Once Jungkook had left for the night, you saved your assignment and left the office, heading up the stairs towards Ella’s room. She was leaning against her bed, headphones slid over her ears playing Snow Patrol loud enough that even you could hear the words and for a moment you felt concerned for the health of her ears.

You ventured into the room and she looked up at you from the homework in her lap, smiling and pushing her headphones off. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Mind if I join you for a minute?” You asked, fingers still on the doorknob and she nodded, patting the carpet beside her.

You made your way towards her, flopping down beside her as she turned off her music. “What brings you to my bedroom floor?” She teased and you smiled.

“I was just wondering what’s going on with you and Jungkook?” You shrugged and she smiled, lopsided and goofy.

“Oh, I mean nothing much,” she admitted, bashful, “he admitted that he likes me, but said he feels a little weird now that he’s got his soulmate tattoo. What a romantic, right?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “He’s so dramatic.”

“Right?” She laughed, “Anyway, I told him we can just be friends for now, but I think once the tattoo settles and stops hurting, he’ll kind of forget about it and we can date. It’s not like he even knows her.”

You nod, picking at the carpet. “True. Plus, the whole soulmate thing is stupid. The universe dictates one person to make you happy forever? What a load.”

“I don’t know,” Ella smiles, “I believe it. That doesn’t mean I don’t also believe someone else can make you happy in the meantime, until you find your soulmate.”

“That’s awful, though. Then you’re just a place holder. Wouldn’t you hate that? You know Jungkook is a romantic, he’s said he definitely wants to be with his soulmate when he meets her so then where does that leave you?”

Ella pouted, drumming her fingers on her book. “I know, but it would be fun while it lasted.”

“Trust me, the pain isn’t worth it.” You smiled tight, mind flashing to Lucas. Time was like a balm and it had already been two weeks since you and Lucas had broken up. Why you and your sister hadn’t talked about this earlier was beyond you and you began to realize that Jungkook was probably right, the two of you didn’t talk enough.

Ella frowned, grabbing hold of your hand. “I’m sorry about Lucas. You’re right, the pain probably isn’t worth it, but I just really like him!”

“I know you do,” you nodded, sighing and leaning your head back against her bed, “When did Jungkook tell you he liked you? Two weeks ago?”

“Well, that’s when he admitted out loud that he liked me, but he’s been hinting at it for a while. I think I started noticing at the beginning of the school year, he was just paying me more attention, talking to me more. When we started hanging out, he started confiding in me. Did you know he broke up with Rachel the night of his birthday party?”

“Oh?” You hummed in surprise, lifting your head from her blanket, “I didn’t know that, actually.”

“Yeah, I don’t think a lot of people knew because Rachel’s whole family was out of town for like a month after and he didn’t really talk about it. After they broke up, Jungkook came over and asked if we could talk on the porch. It was just before 11 so the rest of you were already in bed, I think. I snuck outside and we talked for a while and he told me all about it. She’s kind of horrible, said all sorts of mean things to him.”

“Really? Like what?”

Ella sighed, pushing her books off her lap and folding her legs underneath her body. “Told him he was boring and stupid, that kind of stuff, but then she started dissing his family, too. I don’t think she’s ever been broken up with so she just kind of lost it. Insulted his dad’s broken English, which is just such a low blow. Uncle Jinhyun has worked really hard and he speaks more languages than her crusty ass!”

You chuckled and she smiled softly, shrugging. “Anyway, he was pretty upset about that so we talked about it and he held my hand and told me how I was smart and pretty and any guy would be lucky to have me and then he kissed me on the cheek and went home. I kind of knew then that he was interested in more than friendship, but he’d just broken up with Rachel so he needed time to get over that, you know? Plus, then he got his soulmate tattoo like half an hour later so I think it was just a lot.”

“Yeah,” you shrugged, “but, to be fair, he wasn’t devoted to Rachel or anything. He told me a little while ago that she was kind of a rebound so he probably wasn’t too upset about the breakup. Especially since he’s the one that did it.” “That’s true,” Ella admitted, dropping her pencil into her lap and stretching her fingers absentmindedly. “His feelings were hurt, though. By everything she said, I mean. I feel really bad for him. Don’t tell him I said anything, but I think getting his soulmate tattoo kind of scared him.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“Just,” she paused, attempting to gather her thoughts. “His whole life he’s hearing about soulmates and about how his parents are so happy and he wants that too, right? Then he gets his tattoo and it’s just shocking, it’s probably nothing like you expect, you know? And then you’re faced with the reality; a real person’s name on your wrist and sometime during your life you’re gonna meet them and that’s it forever. Kind of scary, I guess.”

“Didn’t know Jeon Jungkook could scare.” You teased and Ella smiled softly at you.

“Everyone scares sometimes, even Jungkook.”

You stared down at the ground, fingers twisting together in your lap. “Yeah, I guess.” You sighed, standing up and stretching your legs. “I’m gonna head to my room now. Maybe read a book before bed or something.”

“Adventurous.” Ella teased, winking at you. You smiled, nodding and walking from her room, closing the door just as she slipped her head phones back over her ears.

**

Sometimes your life was like the movies. Not in the fun ways, though. No mysterious, sexy, and broody stranger to whisk you away on his motorcycle while the screen faded to black. No, more like you played the tambourine in music class because you were musically challenged and Mr. Sabisco didn’t want a repeat of last year’s Christmas concert.

You didn’t blame him, honestly.

It wasn’t all bad, either. You got to mostly sit in the back and slap the tambourine against your hand to a 4-count rhythm so no harm no foul. You spent most of the class day dreaming and letting muscle memory take over. There was only one week left until your birthday and you were becoming more anxious at the thought. Your mom desperately wanted to throw you a soulmate party and stay up until midnight to watch the name appear, but honestly, you’d never heard something more unappealing in your life. 

If you were forced to have some rando’s name on your wrist, you at least wanted to have the moment be a private one. It wasn’t really a celebration for you, though you couldn’t lie to yourself…you were at least a little curious. Everyone you knew who was with their soulmate was happy. 

It was hard to imagine just getting together with a person whose name matched the tattoo on your body and being happy…but you supposed the odds were in your favor, considering the rest of the world seemed to be doing just fine. Still, you didn’t particularly like it. 

The song ended and you let the tambourine rest in your lap, Mr. Sabisco prattling on about the details of the upcoming holiday concert. It was going to be even bigger than last year, with all the music classes from every grade level performing the same songs together as well as the students he private tutored having a song of their own. 

You could see Moira Smith in the front row puff out her chest with pride at the mention of her name as the grand finale with the choir to back her up and you wanted to roll your eyes. She was a snob about her singing and not one single person cared.

After class you made your way towards lunch, meeting up with Noelle in the hallway at her locker. Lillian’s class was on the other side of the building so the three of you would just meet up in the lunch line. “Just a few more days until your birthday.” Noelle commented, slamming her locker closed and popping her gum.

You flinched and glared at her. “How do you always get away with chewing gum in class?”

“I’m really good at hiding it under my tongue.” She shrugged. “You sure you don’t want to have a party? It doesn’t need to be a soulmate party like your mom wants, I get it, it freaks you out. But don’t you want to just have a regular party with your friends.”

“Wow, party of three, sounds fun.” You scoffed and Noelle smacked your arm, pushing the doors to the lunch room open and you followed her over to the line. Lillian was already a few people ahead of you and she smiled and waved before turning forward again.

“Don’t be rude. It’s always just the three of us and you’ve never had trouble having fun before.”

“I know, I know.” You sighed, grabbing an aging blue, grey tray and stepping forward in the line. “This one just feels different. There’s a lot of pressure and I just kind of want to be left alone.”

“I mean, I don’t really get it, but I respect it. If that’s what you want to do, then that’s what you should do. It’s your birthday so you should have things the way you like them.”

“Thanks, Noelle.” You smiled. Lifting your tray so the lunch lady could give you your pick of lunch for the day.

After the two of you had met Lillian at your usual table, you mostly sat and ate quietly while your two friends chatted about whatever had happened in their last class. You scanned the room, taking note of the fact that Ella was sitting with Jungkook and his friends while Rachel had moved a few tables away with her own friends, scowl drawn across her features. 

You felt a little bad for her, it wasn’t really her fault that she’d mostly been a rebound. Sure, she was witchy and a little bit of a ditz, but it must have hurt her to watch her ex-boyfriend move on so quickly. Not that Jungkook and Ella were even dating, but to Rachel, you imagine even sitting with another girl was in the same sphere. 

You knew what it felt like to lose someone you cared about to someone else and it sucked. You wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.

**

A few days later, after depositing your bag in your room and making your way to the kitchen for an afternoon snack, your mother stopped you in the hallway, clasping an earring in one ear, head tilted as she looked at you.

“You have tutoring with Jungkook soon, right?” At your nod, she continued, “Will you take this over to him, it’s something I’ve been meaning to give to his mother. Also, remind him they’re coming over for dinner. His parents will be coming here straight from the office so I don’t want him to forget and be alone.”

“Ay ay, Captain.” You nodded, taking the small bag your mother handed you and skipping down the stairs. You didn’t want to eat anything too heavy because you would be having dinner in a few hours anyway, but a sandwich couldn’t hurt in keeping the hunger pangs away for a little bit.

You made yourself a quick sandwich before making your way to the office to grab the stuff you’d left there from the day before and out the door into the late afternoon, coat bundled tight around you as you made the two-minute walk to Jungkook’s house.

He greeted you at the door in a grey on grey sweat pant combo, hair swept back from his forehead and looking more handsome than should ever be allowed. You swallowed a bite of sandwich, way too large to do so comfortably and you coughed, beating your chest as it burned its way down your esophagus. 

“You ok there?” Jungkook asked, eyebrow rising as he watched you struggle your way through a task as blindingly simple as chewing your food.

“Fine.” You rasped, throat constricting painfully around air and you waved him in, following after him into the house and closing the door behind yourself. 

“Did you do what I told you to last time?” He questioned, making his way into the living room where he’d set up a make shift office with a foldable table and his laptop. 

You reached into your folder, pulling out the paper you’d printed last night and sat next to Jungkook as he flopped on the couch, scanning the paper quietly while you waited. As much as you hated to admit it, his help in English had been invaluable. Not only were you passing the class, but you were actually doing really well and you had him to thank for it. 

“This is really good,” he said after a while, sitting up straighter and placing the paper on the table next to his laptop, “I’ve got just a couple more corrections but then I think it will be ready to turn in. You’ve got the USB, right?” He asked, holding his hand out towards you. You grabbed the USB from your pocket, handing it to him and he slid it into the computer, loading the paper on his screen.

“When we’re done with this, we should celebrate.” Jungkook said, sliding his finger along the mouse pad as he moved the word document to where he wanted it.

“How?” You asked and he shrugged.

“We’ll figure something out. OK, so I’m gonna mark the things I want to work on in yellow and then we’ll get started talking about how you think it could be even better and we’ll go from there.”

**

After spending the next hour going through your work and ironing out the kinks, you were actually excited to turn in an assignment for once. This was probably the best paper you’d ever written and aside from Jungkook’s (admittedly invaluable) guidance, you’d written it by yourself. You didn’t think there’d ever been a time before when you could say you were proud of something you’d written.

Jungkook stood up, stretching and walked to the other side of the room, searching through the bookcase while you put your paper and USB away. It was nearly time to head home and help your mom make dinner.

“Hey, do you like music?” Jungkook asked, walking back towards you as he stared down at one of his father’s old records and you frowned. 

“What kind of a dumb question is that?” You scoffed. “Of course, I like music.”

“I’m not talking about today’s stuff; I’m talking about real music.”

“OK, snobby.” You laughed and he grinned, holding up the record for you to see. “The Temptations? Never heard of them.”

“Shut your mouth!” Jungkook gasped, making his way to the record player. “Don’t you worry, we’re gonna right this wrong right now.”

“I wasn’t really worried.” You mumbled, watching as he placed the record on the turntable and grabbed the needle to start the song. You stood up, making your way over to where he stood.

The record player scratched to life, an upbeat tempo filling the room and Jungkook closed his eyes, body swaying to the beat. “This song is my favorite of theirs. It wasn’t their most popular, which I don’t get because it just makes you wanna dance.”

“What’s it called?” You asked, dragging your finger idly across the desk as you watched him sway and his eyes blink open to look over at you. 

“It’s called “Get Ready.” Here, dance.” He said, coming around to your side of the table and grabbing your hand.

You frowned, shaking your head and trying to pull back. “I don’t dance, Jungkook. I’m bad at it.”

“Me too.” He grinned and you glared at him.

“You’re on the schools dance team. Don’t lie.”

He laughed, shaking his head and pulling you further into the center of the living room. “Come on, there’s nothing to it. Just throw your hands up in the air and move your hips and feet.” He pushed your arms above your head and grabbed at your hips, making them twist as you tried to awkwardly sway back and forth.

  “I feel like an idiot.” You pouted and he grinned.

“Just close your eyes and pretend like no one’s watching.” He said, twisting his hips in a way that made you giggle.

“You’re watching.” You insisted and he smiled, eyes slipping closed.

“Better?”

You sighed, shaking your arms out nervously before starting to twist your body in earnest, trying to find the rhythm in your hips. You closed your eyes tight, lips clenched together as you concentrated on the music. It was lively and fun, a song you’d definitely heard before, though not often and you’d not known who sung it. Your arms rose above your head subconsciously and you could feel your lips peeling slowly into a smile. It felt nice to let loose; at least for a moment.

“There you go.” You could hear Jungkook’s smile before you opened your eyes to see it. He was dancing in earnest now, arms flung in front of his chest as he shook his hands back and forth and you laughed, continuing to dance along to the music until the song ended and you stopped to catch your breath. 

Just then you heard your phone ringing from the couch and you ran to dig through the pillows where it had fallen, pulling it out and sliding to answer. 

“Hello?” You asked, holding the phone close to your ear as you watched Jungkook take the record from the record player and delicately put it back in its sleeve and on the shelf with his dad’s other records. “Yeah, I’ll head back now. OK, bye.” You hung up, sliding your phone in the back pocket of your jeans.

Jungkook looked over at you, shaggy hair hanging over the edge of his eyebrows and he smiled softly. “Your mom?”

“Yeah, I gotta go help her get ready for dinner.” You grabbed your folder, sliding it into the crook of your elbow. “You’re still coming, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He said softly, coming to stand in front of you. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

**

Once the Jeon’s had arrived, both of your families made way into the kitchen to grab plates and pile them high. You let the greed of your eyes decide for you, piling your plate far higher than necessary and Jungkook smirked at you from across the island.

“Hungry?” He grinned and you frowned.

“Don’t judge me, Jeon!”

He held up a hand as surrender and Ella giggled from beside him, her plate practically empty next yours as she plucked a few spoonfuls of rice onto it. 

“You’re so dramatic, Y/N.” She teased.

“All I’m saying is let me live my dreams.” You huffed, finishing off your plate with a roll and Ella laughed, following you to the table with Jungkook traipsing behind.

“So, Y/N” Jieun started, as everyone finally sat down to eat, “It’s almost your birthday! Are you going to have a soulmate reveal?”

A loud crash ripped through the air from the end of the table and you all looked at Jungkook who hissed, rubbing at his knee. “Uh, sorry…hit my knee.”

His mother chuckled, swatting at him, “be careful, you big lump.” She then trained her vision back on you and you pushed at your mashed potatoes in discomfort.

“Actually, I just wanted to have it be a pretty private thing.”

“Oh, so just your family and us? Well, that’s OK, you don’t need to have a big party to celebrate. We can still be there to cheer you on all the same.”

“Mom.” Jungkook whined softly under his breath and she glanced over at him, “leave her alone. She wants to spend her birthday in private. As in by herself.”

“Well surely not without her family?” She asked in surprise, turning to look at her best friend and then back at you, “your family will be there with you at least? It’s a very special moment in a person’s life, after all.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, “actually, I just want to be alone during that moment. I don’t really believe in the soulmate thing, I guess. I mean, I know it’s real and that a name will appear on my wrist, but I think it’s pretty contrived that, that person is just supposed to magically be everything I’ve ever wanted.” You shrug as your voice quiets, taking note of the shock on both of Jungkook’s parents faces.

He himself had gone eerily quiet, chewing absentmindedly on his pot roast, eyes shifting anywhere else in the room and you realized with a sigh that he was done helping you try to distract his mother.

“Y/N’s always been peculiar about this sort of thing,” your mother chuckled good naturedly, “Never really liked the whole soulmate birthday party thing, though we’ve definitely tried to pique her interest.”

“It’s OK if she’s not interested!” Ella insisted, smiling as all eyes shifted to her. “I think it’s kind of cool that she wants to keep it private, like her own special little secret.”

You smiled over at your sister as a thank you and conversation resumed on new topics, though Jungkook was oddly quiet for most of the dinner, only really speaking when spoken to. You wondered what his parents thought of him getting his own tattoo. As far as you knew, no one but him even knew the name on his wrist. He was private about it for a different reason than you wanted to be private about your own. It must have made them sad to not share in that moment with him.

Perhaps your parents would feel sad too. You just couldn’t bring yourself to change your mind, though. If you could, you’d make sure the tattoo never appeared; that way you could choose completely for yourself how you got to live your life. If you could.

**

The night before your 18th birthday probably should have been more exciting than it was. This year your birthday fell on a Saturday and as such, you were wearing the fluffiest pajamas you owned, curled under a blanket with your laptop balanced on your lap, pulling up Netflix to binge watch a show to take you into the early morning hours of the weekend when your life would suddenly change completely.

It was an interesting juxtaposition, turning 18. You were about to have a name appear on your wrist that would impact the rest of your life, but until you met that person, your life would stay exactly the same. It was terrifying and comforting all at the same time. You had half an hour until midnight and currently your parents were in bed and Ella was downstairs in the kitchen having a late-night snack.

You rubbed at your wrist anxiously, skimming through the titles of the movies you could watch. You needed something light hearted and funny; something that would take your mind off this stupid soulmate situation.

Twenty minutes into the movie and with only ten minutes until your birthday, your wrist began to tingle. You frowned, covering your wrist with your hand and trying to ignore it. Your parents had told you that it would hurt a little when your tattoo first came and that the ache would last a few days. Just a nice little reminder of the situation you had no control over. Every minute that ticked by, your heart raced faster and your wrist burned more.

You were so anxious you almost couldn’t sit still; a wave of anxiety building so high you thought you might scream. You’d never felt what claustrophobia was like, but you could imagine it was much like this. Just trapped in a situation you couldn’t get out of. 

You wanted to cry by one minute to twelve. The stinging was intense and your anxiety was through the roof. You hadn’t bothered to look at your wrist yet, you knew that the black of the tattoo was already starting to show but you were terrified to see it. Eyes bleary from pain, you tried to focus on your breathing. This was not at all what you were expecting. Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, laptop now abandoned on the side of your bed, you laid back against your pillow, blinking away the tears. At 12:01 the pain began to dull and you sighed, breath shuddery as you wiped the tears from your cheeks.

Sitting up sluggishly, you pulled your laptop back into your lap, allowing the light from the screen to illuminate your area. Releasing a deep breath, you lifted the sleeve of your pajama top and felt your stomach drop, room suddenly tilting on its axis.

You’d never felt more nauseous and confused in your life. It must have been incorrect, there was no possible way. Blinking down at your wrist again you felt like your world had shattered, a million pieces dangling in the air around you as you sat frozen. A nightmare you didn’t know you were living.

The only name you’d never expected to appear on your wrist was there, blinking up at you in a crisp, black scrawl.

Jeon Jungkook.

**

Oh my gosh! This was your small reprieve, haha, next chapter is gonna be a big one (obviously) so strap in! I’ll be writing a mini chapter from Jungkook’s point of view when he got his tattoo starting immediately and then get working on chapter 9. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts and opinions. <3

Chapter 7

Chapter 9

Copyright © 2018  by taeken-my-heart (Nora.) All rights reserved.